Fallen Angel
by sevenpercent
Summary: Just how did the Holmes brothers plot the Reichenbach Fall? Angst, arguments, secrets and lies abound. A Series 2 multi-chapter case fic with a number of story arcs, in which Moriarty meets his match, and the seeds are laid for Series Three.
1. Chapter 1

**Fallen Angel**

**Summary**: Just how did the Holmes brothers plot the Reichenbach Fall? Angst, arguments, secrets and lies abound. A Series 2 multi-chapter case fic with a series of story arc, in which Moriarty meets his match, and the seeds are laid for Series Three.

**Chapter One Sowing Dissent Part One**

* * *

"Prime Minister?"

The gentle query dragged the man's attention back to the reality of the Cabinet Committee Room A. The baby-faced man with a receding hairline was thinking about the meeting due to come over lunch, when he would be briefed by his Special Adviser on the latest poll figures. The calendar was relentless- six weeks to go before the European Elections, and at last count his party's figures were trailing not only that of his coalition party, but of the latest spoiler group, UKIP. He sighed.

The grey haired civil servant on his left was the new Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet Office, Sir Stephen Reynolds. Grey was a good descriptor. He was colourless, a 'safe pair of hands'. Given the traitor he was replacing*, the Prime Minister reckoned it was all he could expect.

He shifted in his chair and looked back down at the printed agenda on the table in front of him, before drily intoning, "Right. The final item - Update on Pending Issues. Anybody got anything earth shattering to report, or can we safely adjourn?" He put a bit of sarcasm into the tone. Not that the monthly meeting of COBRA wasn't important, but his party political concerns were more pressing today than national security. If he wasn't in office, then national security wouldn't be a matter for him anymore.

Down the long mahogany table, the MI6 Director General leaned forward. "Just one, Prime Minister. An update on the Moriarty issue."

The PM racked his brain for a moment, then found the memory. "Yes, that's the bloke that supposedly has a computer skeleton key? The one who caused a bit of a fuss with the Yanks. Well, that's died down and there's been nothing new for the past three months, so perhaps it is time to remove this one from the pending category." He felt pleased. The PM's head was stuffed with far too many bits of trivia; it wasn't always easy to remember who was who in the world inhabited by most of the people sitting around the table. The heads of MI6, MI5 and GCHQ, plus the Security Liaison Service sat at their usual places; their various hangers-on were scattered behind their masters, sitting in the uncomfortable hard chairs against the sides of the committee room. The PM thought of them as 'faithful spaniels', willing to spring forward, retrieving some odd bit of information that might have fallen out of their masters' grasp. He always ignored them, even if he couldn't ignore the spymasters sitting in the comfortable chairs.

At the centre of the table directly across from the Prime Minister, Mycroft Holmes opened a file that lay in front of him. By that simple movement, the others around the table knew that Moriarty would not be dropped from future COBRA agendas, no matter what the PM might want. The PM sighed again. "Oh, very well; tell me why I am wrong, but just get on with it."

Mrs Ffoukes drew breath to start, but the PM interrupted again. "Briefly, please; I have an appointment in…" he gave an all-to-obvious glance at his watch, "…sixteen minutes in the House."

She carried on, undaunted. "You are aware that the damage done to the Bulgarian and Romanian organised criminal networks eighteen months ago changed the patterns of traffic. Instead of the southern route, we've seen more illegal arms, drugs, immigrants and money laundering making its way into the UK via the northern route, through Scandinavia. We think that Moriarty is behind this shift. Our sources suggest that he has been 'consulted' by various parties on how the improve their ability to evade our usual procedures."

"Last month, we had a breakthrough- the Swedes arrested Karl Levander, the brains behind the new routes being set up. That was as a result of an anonymous tip-off that arrived, complete with the evidence needed to get a conviction. We suspect someone in the network itself, a competitor, gave Levander up. We also know that the Swedish _Sakerhetspolisen_ were about to get Levander to turn over some interesting evidence linking Moriarty to it all. But then he was mysteriously killed in the maximum security prison where he was being held in Stockholm."

Elizabeth Ffoukes exchanged glances with Mycroft Holmes, sitting across the table from her. It had been a blow to lose the chance to interrogate the Swede. Her agents were on their way to Stockholm when the news of the murder led to their recall.

Mycroft took up the baton. "Within the past month, we've had reports that the network has a new man, known only as "the Viking" at the helm. All we know is that he is Norwegian. He's managed to get Moriarty's ear somehow, and the volume of business going through the Nordic route into Britain has literally doubled in the past two weeks. It's a problem, and we are working on it. But, this is a setback, sir, and one we felt obliged to report."

The PM sighed again. "Very well, Mrs Ffoukes, Mister Holmes, you have done your duty. Duly noted." He closed the file and handed it to the Permanent Secretary.

oOo

In the back seat of the anonymous black government car, Elizabeth Ffoukes leaned back and closed her eyes. The PM was…annoying. His over-riding concern now was getting re-elected, and everything else was being pushed aside. The local and European elections in six weeks would be a barometer of his party's fortunes in the general election that had to come in June next year. From now until the day after that election, she knew that he would be driven by priorities other than what was good for the security of Britain. _A price paid for being a democracy._

The car was heading west on Millbank and approaching Vauxhall Bridge when her mobile went off. She pulled it out of her handbag and took a look at the caller ID. _Number blocked._

That didn't happen very often. Very few people in the world had her direct phone number; fewer still whom she would not have known. She wondered. _Wrong number?_ It was possible that a civilian might hit a certain series of keys without realising. Elizabeth Ffoukes decided to take the call, knowing that her people would be able to find the number of the caller, and make sure it did not happen again.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Ffoukes."

_Not a wrong number then, but not someone I know. _She realised that the man's tenor voice on the other end had a foreign accent.

"Yes? Who is this and how did you get this number?"

She heard the smile in the voice that replied. "Consider me a fan. We have…reason to communicate. And I would like that to be face-to-face."

Now she could detect a Scandinavian accent. Soft, with a trace of a suppressed lisp. He spoke good English, but was clearly not a native.

"You haven't answered either of my questions, and until you do, then we are not going to communicate any further." She put as much authority as she could into her tone of voice.

That provoked a chuckle. "You know me as The Viking. How was the COBRA meeting? Was the Prime Minster even remotely interested? I doubt it, really."

Alarm bells rang in her head. "How do you know about such a meeting?"

"The same way I know what your phone number is. I have _sources._"

She was still digesting that fact when he continued. "In any case, it is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is that I am in London and I wish to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because we have mutual interests."

"That's…" She was about to say "ridiculous", but held her tongue. He would know that she would do everything in her power to capture him, interrogate him and then hand him over to his home country's intelligence services.

"Yes, of course, Mrs Ffoukes. You are wondering why I would risk such a thing, and are even now, as we speak, considering how to inform the _Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet_ and the _Politiets sikkerhetstjeneste_ about my contacting you. I can assure you that would be pointless."

She wanted to keep him talking. The longer he was on the phone, the more likely that her people would be able to trace the call. She pressed the button that opened the privacy screen between her and the front seat occupants. Catching their attention, Elizabeth mimed the fact that she wanted the agent in the passenger seat beside the driver to contact the office and listen into the call.

There was another chuckle. "I do recognise the sound of a Daimler's privacy screen, and the fact that you are now communicating to your people. No point in trying to trace the call. The phone is pre-paid, anonymous and being routed through more than a dozen ISPs; don't waste your time. I am not a novice, Mrs Ffoukes."

"Then if as you say you are not a novice, why would I risk putting myself anywhere near a person such as you?"

"Because I mean you no harm. And I am going to be quite helpful to you."

Now it was her turn to be amused. "I should believe you simply because you say such a thing?" Her incredulity was clear.

"Of course not, I won't insult your intelligence. First, a few confidence building measures: let's start with the fact that I am the person who tipped off the Swedes about Levander. Unfortunately, Moriarty got to him before you and the Swedes could learn anything useful from him. But, there is more where that came from. I am sending you a little present now. I suggest that you read it while you tell your driver to turn left onto Lambeth Palace Road when he gets across the bridge. It should take you until about Waterloo Station to digest it. Then we can resume this conversation." The caller disconnected. But it was followed almost immediately with the soft ping of an incoming e mail message.

She told her driver to go left, away from Vauxhall Cross. If she decided to take the scenic route back to HQ, that was her business. Her eyebrows rose when she realised that the message was not a text, but rather something sent to her e mail account. The blackberry was the most secure phone in the world- and this one had special firewalls custom-built to encrypt every incoming and outgoing e mail. _Who IS this guy?_

Elizabeth leaned forward to the passenger sitting next to the driver. "Frazier, tell the boys and girls that I have picked up a file that has broken the encryption wall. Scramble some discrete backup following us. I need protection _now_." There was something in the tone of her voice that made the agent check his weapon even as he hit speed dial again on his own blackberry to put her orders into effect.

She leaned back onto the leather seat and eyed the file icon on her phone screen. The Viking had managed to breach protection that was supposed to be fool-proof. For a moment, she wondered if opening it would cause some sort of virus attack. Elizabeth then kicked herself mentally. Anyone able to subvert that encryption would not _need_ to attack her phone. She clicked on the file.

And drew a startled breath, as it opened. It was a document – a bill of lading, to be precise, for a container arriving in Folkestone port tonight. What caught her attention was an embedded note.

_Enjoy. Look under the floorboards of the container arriving from Bergen, destined for Birmingham. You will find heroin with a street value of £30 million, destined for the B515s_.

If true, as a piece of intelligence, this was priceless. The B515s were a notorious street gang in England's second city. The 'gift' had the desired effect. She was now incredibly curious why a criminal would be willing to trade such valuable information simply to impress her enough to make her willing to meet him.

Elizabeth punched the re-dial key. When it connected, she did not hesitate. "You have my attention."

"Good. Tell your driver to proceed along Stamford Road onto Southwark Street. And you can pass that information onto the car that is about to swing in behind yours; wouldn't want to lose your security blanket, would you?"

_Whoever he is, he knows my protocols as well as I do. _That alarmed her almost as much as his gift intrigued her.

* * *

**Author's Note:** * If you want to know why his predecessor was a traitor, then read my prequel- _Level Up_, which covers the story of what happened next after the Scandal in Belgravia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fallen Angel**

* * *

**Chapter Two- Sowing Dissent Part Two**

* * *

The Viking's instructions eventually led Elizabeth to the entrance of the Shard. She knew that the property owners were busy trying to sell off-plan the office space that would take up the first twenty eight floors of the landmark building. The first of four restaurants on levels 31 to 33 was being kitted out now, estimated opening would be next year, as would the main viewing platform on the top floors. She knew this because MI5 had briefed her about any 'trophy building' going up in London that could become a target for terrorist attack.

Levels 34 to 52 would be opening in two years as the Shangri La Hotel- the deal had been in the press four months ago. The world's richest property owners were now being courted for the private residential apartments that would take up the twelve floors above that. Rumours were that the space would be carved into ten flats with a price tag of over £50 million- but it was all speculation, because they wouldn't go on sale until after the hotel opened.

For now, it was still mostly a construction site. The outer glass curtain walls were in place, but the rest of the place was a hive of workers. Only the main reception was presentable, given it was serving as a marketing suite. Five agents accompanied her in through the main glass doors, fanning out to scan the area for threats. She showed her identification to the marketing person behind the desk, and asked for the construction manager to meet her quickly.

When he showed up in dirty coveralls, she told him who she was and watched the panic skitter across his brows. MI6 would only be onsite if there was a risk to the building.

"How many floors are being worked on- where you have people actually at work?" She gave the man her sternest gaze.

"Nineteen. Do you think the site is going to be attacked? I can get my security man down here in a minute."

She knew that the building's owners were Qatari, and more than a little paranoid about it being targeted by Islamist extremists. "No, not attacked. Just… used."

Simpson pulled floor maps out and spread them onto the counter-top, briefing the four others.

When Elizabeth's phone rang again, she answered on the second ring, leaving it on speaker phone.

"Ah, Mrs Ffoukes. Nice to see you have company now. Unfortunately, I'm not fond of crowds. So, you will be limited to three to accompany you in the lift. Take the third elevator from the left in the bank behind reception. Please know that I can observe you, so will see if you are not following my instructions."

The construction manager nodded. "There is CCTV in the lifts- a security precaution."

She thought about the number. Three agents…coincidence? No, probably yet more evidence that this person knew a lot about protocols. Anything less would have been deemed insufficient according to the protection training. She decided to probe.

"And how many of you are there?"

"I am alone- always."

If so, then the Viking was supremely confident; four against one was a ratio she liked. She nodded to Simpson and two of the other four, who followed her into the lift. When the doors closed, nothing happened. Then she heard another phone ringing- but not the one she was holding. A quick search of the lift car led to a small panel, behind which a phone could be heard ringing. It was prised open and the mobile handed to her. She opened the connection- again, putting on speaker phone so her team could hear the conversation. But then Elizabeth realised it was a text.

**15.12pm Hold the phone to the panel on the left of the close door button. **

She showed it to Simpson, then complied, looking up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the lift. As soon as the phone came within a few centimetres of the metal, the lift came to life and began its ascent. Silently, the four MI6 people watched the floor level sign flash rising numbers. The rapid ascent made her ears pop. After 40 flashed by, the lift began to decelerate, eventually easing to a gentle stop at Floor 63. The three agents had pulled weapons and moved Elizabeth to the side, behind one of the men, so that anyone firing in would miss the intended target.

The doors slid open. For a moment, no one moved. Then two of the agents went out, weapons ready, scanning both right and left. Simpson kept his finger on the open door button, holding it open.

A few more seconds passed, and Elizabeth began to feel a bit silly. Then the two agents announced that the foyer was clear, and she could disembark.

Out of the elevator, the raw state of the building became clear. The floor-plate was still concrete, but the central core and the steel girders needed to give the Shard its strength were in place. The view through the floor to ceiling windows was spectacular, but none of the MI6 eyes were on that.

The phone in Elizabeth's hand went off again. She glanced at the screen.

**15.14pm Around the back of the Lift shaft. Enjoy**

She showed the message to Simpson who sent one of the agents around the back of the concrete wall. Within seconds he reappeared. "Clear- except for a table, chair and a file, mam. They all check out."

Elizabeth sat down in the chair and wondered at the man who was willing to consider her comforts. She opened the file and began to read.

By page four, she knew the life history of the man known only as "The Viking." Thirty five, born in Alesund, on the coast, a small sea port. University at Bergen, then overseas at London's Imperial College. No name on the file, every place where it occurred on the text was blacked out. The birth certificate, driver's license, passport- with every image removed. _Likes his privacy._ But, unless they were fakes, her people would be able to trace him. And if they were fakes, then they'd at least have a photo to use for image resolution software. _He'd know that fact._ She found herself growing increasingly surprised by the risks the man was taking.

The file included a list of UK landing cards; as a Norwegian national, the Viking would be required like all non-EU residents to complete one each time he came in and out of the UK. Then a company registration document, at Stavanger. Offices in Malmo, Uppsala, Stockholm and Helsinki under the name Scanford, an import-export company, which according to the file had grown to some forty employees, turning over a tidy if unexciting profit. Just the sort of company not likely to attract much attention. The files had been conveniently translated into English.

Then came four sheets that surprised her- if they could be believed, four pages from the Norwegian PST- their equivalent of MI5- identifying a person known only as The Viking, in contact with Moriarty. Interestingly, there was one sheet that Elizabeth recognised from the briefing pack that had been handed over to her by the Norwegians investigating Karl Levander's death. An exact copy. _If someone is setting this up, they are doing a great deal to authenticate it._ The next sheet was something that the Norwegians had _not_ shared with her- the fact that they had connected Scanford with Levander.

Then, unbelievably, a sheet purporting to be a transcript of a call between The Viking and James Moriarty.

_JM: "So, you're the new kid on the block? I must say, you know how to get my attention. The move on [redacted] was quite cute. What can I do for you?"_

_TV: "Ask not what you can do for me; this is about what I can do for you."_

_JM: "You've already done me a disservice by sticking your nose where it was not welcome. You've cost me a useful tool, a means to an end. Explain to me why I shouldn't just kill you and be done with it?"_

_TV: "Because Levander was skimming- and he was useless. I can improve productivity, profitability and throughput. Your cut will improve; happy consultancy clients are surely worth something."_

_JM: "Of course, he was skimming. The eedjit had to make some money somewhere."_

_TV [interrupting]: "But you had him down for 8%. You didn't know about the 12% he was taking from the Belarussians on top, selling your client's details on the side." _

_JM: "That's… good. Prove it and we might do something interesting. Come to London- let's talk."_

_TV: "No. My identity is my protection and you'll never know who you are dealing with- at least, not to look at. But, the proof of my value will be clearly visible. So, those are the terms. Just the same as Levander; I'm not greedy."_

_[line lost]_

This was a transcript from the _Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet_. And to her eye, the top secret stamp was extremely authentic.

_Why would he give me the evidence I need to crucify him? Why didn't the Norwegians share this with us?_ The two questions warred for her attention.

Then the phone rang again, and she picked up.

"Mrs. Ffoukes. You have now read the file. You know from your own work that my relationship with Moriarty has prospered. He doesn't know my identity, but I am prepared to share it with you."

"WHY? Why would you do this?" She let some of her perplexed confusion creep into her tone. "I don't understand."

The next words she heard were not from the phone, but from a man coming around the corner of the lift shaft. The slight lisp, the Norwegian accented English continued, but now in a register below where it had been on the phone. A proper baritone replied, "To prove a point, Elizabeth."

MI6's DG looked up into a pair of grey green eyes that she knew all too well. For a moment, she was too stunned to reply.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fallen Angel Chapter Three**

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Three**

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes. What the _bloody hell_ is going on?"

The young man's smile was genuine; he clearly enjoyed surprising her. "Do us both a favour and tell your minions to disappear. They can wait downstairs."

She nodded to Simpson, and he collected the other agents. Sherlock waited until the lift doors closed.

"The file is genuine."

Elizabeth tried to digest that fact. "Just what does that actually _mean_, Sherlock.?"

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me make it even more obvious. _God ettermiddag, direktør Ffoukes. Hvordan liker du min norsk? __Tillat meg__å__presentere meg selv__, __mitt navn__er__Lars__Sigursson.*_" But, you may call me 'The Viking', if you prefer." He shrugged his shoulders. "In fact, it would be best if you did."

She looked down at the file, closed the manila folder over the papers and stood up. Then she walked over to the glass window and looked out over London, trying to think through the implications of the last forty minutes. "What game are you playing, Sherlock?"

"No game. It's real. I'm the person on that file. I have been wriggling my way into Moriarty's network for the past four months."

She turned and glared. "If that's true, then you are guilty of criminal activity of such breath-taking stupidity that even your brother won't be able to save you from it."

That provoked a smirk. "Oh, I wouldn't tell him just yet, if I were you. Not when I am about to explain how you can do the impossible. Want to defeat James Moriarty? Of course, you do. Every Security chief in thirty two countries has him on their most wanted list. But, I can assure you, that not even my brother has been able to do that on his own. You and I, however, will do it."

As he locked eyes with her, she could see he was deadly serious. "I have investigated you very carefully, Elizabeth Ffoukes. I had to be sure that you are not one of his fallen angels. Moriarty cannot suspect anything of what I have in mind. You and I working together are going to destroy Moriarty, once and for all."

She shook her head. "You don't understand…"

He interrupted. "Yes, I do, actually – far more than you do. I have seen every piece of intelligence in MI5 and 6's files on him, what my brother knows that you don't, and added my own information, as well."

"Mycroft would never break security protocols to share that information with you." Now her voice had an edge to it.

The younger man smirked. "Who said he _shared_ anything with me? He has no idea that I've ransacked his systems- and yours by the way- to gather what I needed to know. Neither of you were willing to play, so I just…decided to take matters in my own hands. Now sit back down in that chair, and prepare to listen. When I am done, then you can decide whether you are going to remain a part of the problem, or become part of the solution."

oOo

Almost two hours later, Elizabeth Ffoukes emerged from the lift to rejoin her agents. Twice during the time when she was upstairs on the 63rd level, she responded to Simpson's texts to verify that she was fine- just taking a while. She also broke off her discussion with Sherlock just long enough to contact her private office and tell her PA to cancel the rest of the afternoon's meetings. She'd not be returning to the office tonight, but would head directly home after this meeting.

Now sitting in the comfort of her own living room, looking into the flames of her gas fire and sipping from a glass of chilled Gavi wine, she was thinking things through very carefully. Her husband, a noted QC practicing in the City of London, was out at a corporate dinner tonight. Barristers needed to network. Just as well, because she needed the quiet time to think it through.

"Not a plan", Sherlock had said. And he was right. It was far more diabolical than that. As he talked her through it, every time she thought of an objection, he answered it in his next breath- before she could even put her concern into words.

"Think of it as a series of interlocked scenarios. Not a linear plan- that would be visible to Moriarty and allow him to duck it, just as he has every other attempt to stop him. No, this time, I am using a different strategy, one that remains flexible no matter what he does."

"But what about Moriarty's own contingency plans? Sherlock, he's held off the wrath of the world's secret services with the threat of what he will do if he is taken prisoner. For every day he is held, there will be another crime that even he can't stop. It's a dead man's switch, escalating every day until a final doomsday scenario for the country stupid enough to lock him up. You _cannot_ begin by doing just that. It's madness!"

He had laughed. "Yes- exactly. And when his contingency plans are broken, dismantled one-by-one even before they can be launched, then the people he has paid to carry out his threats will not trust him again. You'll let him go before he gets to do anything really serious. But, the damage to his reputation will have been done. His clients, his fallen angels, his own people will know he is not infallible."

"How are you going to outsmart his contingency plans? He doesn't know the details- so interrogation, no matter how fierce, will not get it out of him."

"He will tell us just enough to allow us to dismantle the crimes, one-by-one."

"Why? Why would he risk sabotaging his own contingency? What possible incentive could you give him to hand over even the slightest clue about his intended crimes?"

"Me." He grinned at her confusion. "In exchange for juicy tidbits about me, he will hand over just enough to play the game."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I'm not the only one who gets bored. And he will think he can out-fox us, get something that he wants, without giving anything significant away. When he is proven wrong, then we will make him very, very angry."

"So, your idea is to…what, royally piss him off with this so he goes after you once he is out of jail? Didn't Mycroft ever tell you that provoking the neighbourhood bully was sure to end in tears?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course he did. But it didn't make any difference. I got into scrapes- and got myself out of them, too. Big Brother couldn't be with me in the school halls, Elizabeth. I learned how to be smarter than any bully, rather than avoiding a fight. Playing safe with Moriarty is no longer a luxury. We have no choice. It's either on my terms or on his. If I can provoke him into taking this personally? Well, again that fact will be seen, noticed by his clients, his enemies, his own people. Another sign of his instability. We _can_ undermine him."

"He'll _kill_ you, Sherlock."

"Eventually, he will try. But I will make him so _angry_ that he won't go for the clean kill. He will want to drag it out, make me pay. He's already threatened to do just that. And while he is being held, we will feed him what he wants to know.- that I am behind it. He will extort information from his interrogator about me, in exchange for little clues about his plans. He thinks he is clever enough to outwit me. Think of this as my version of his five pips game, only this time, it's _my_ game, not his."

She listened for almost an hour, probing him on the details. Then she made him stop, stood up and walked back over to the windows, where twilight was beginning to fall, and the lights of London were coming on. "You know _he_ won't agree."

There was no reply. She tried to make him see. "It's too great a risk, for both you and for the country. Mycroft won't _allow_ this to happen."

For the first time that afternoon, Sherlock let his temper show. "I don't_ care_ whether Mycroft agrees or disagrees. It's not up to him. You and I can manoeuvre my brother into a position where he can't refuse, and he can't interfere, either. Legally, you can go to the Parliamentary Oversight Committee and get him recused from the whole case, if he won't co-operate. Lady Smallwood will keep him in check. He will bluster and fuss, but in the end, there is only one choice. He must either decide to help and make it possible for me to take Moriarty on and win, or he decides to interfere. If he does that, it will cost him his career and I will most likely die in my attempt, because he tried to interfere. Nothing Mycroft does will stop me from doing this, Elizabeth. You need to understand that."

She sighed. "Why _you_?"

"Because I am the only one that Moriarty will believe capable of taking him on. I have no _country_ to protect, no honour, no loyalty. I can keep this personal and in so doing protect the country from whatever vengeance he might wish on it. If you or Mycroft tried, you'd be risking retaliation. He's held every country to ransom for years because of that. I have nothing to lose."

She looked at him in surprise. "What about John Watson?"

"What about him?"

"Moriarty has already targeted him to put pressure on you. I've read the report on the Bomber, you know."

"That tactic won't work a second time."

"Why not? You've demonstrated it already has worked."

"Because I will be putting distance between John Watson and myself, so he can't be used."

"He's not part of your plan then?"

"No, of course not. He will know nothing about it. When the time comes to disappear, I will. I'll take up my identity as Lars Sigurson, and I will keep working from the inside. I don't expect it will be easy to take Moriarty and his network apart. But that will be easier to do if I am not Sherlock Holmes. He has to believe that he's won."

"We can't be seen to be doing business with a criminal active in Moriarty's network. And none of our people can be implicated in any illegal activity. There are _rules_, Sherlock."

He smirked. "For you, maybe, but not for me. Anyway, who said anything about you doing _business_ with me? I am not now, nor will I ever be working for any British agency. I am a private individual. And any crimes are being and will be committed in the future are by Lars Sigurson, citizen of Norway."

He gestured to the open file on the table. "No one will be able to draw the connection. You'll simply be in contact with a double agent, from a foreign country- which is what you do on a regular basis. I am telling you that it will be deniable, totally. You shouldn't tell anyone that I am behind it, although my brother is likely to deduce it. And you are smart enough to follow my suggestions about how to organise the capture and interrogation of Moriarty outside of the UK and in a place where the incarceration is also deniable. So, this isn't rendition, and you won't get in trouble for it. I can guarantee that Moriarty will not want to broadcast the fact that he was captured, and his plans dismantled- he won't want the bad publicity to show just how he was beaten at his own game. So, you can't use my brother as an excuse, Elizabeth. I take full responsibility."

She was appalled on a personal level for Sherlock. And yet, the more he talked her through it, the more she could see that it might indeed work.

Mycroft would be the stumbling block. She could imagine his reaction. She shook her head again, playing the conversation. "Your brother won't agree."

"All Mycroft has to do is do as he is told. Interrogate Moriarty, lay the bait and set the trap. After that, it doesn't matter; in fact, it's even better if you don't tell him a thing more. I certainly won't be telling him anything. _If _he wants to keep his job, you can remind him that he has to help in this limited way and then keep clear. If push comes to shove, and the prat tries to make it a resigning issue, then let him. Out of the way, and stripped of power, then he can do less damage to my plans. Whatever my brother thinks to the contrary, he is not irreplaceable. It doesn't have to be Mycroft, anyone could sow the seeds with Moriarty, given what I will give you."

She finally voiced what she had been thinking as he told her his ideas. "What if _I_ don't agree?"

He walked over to the windows and stood beside her, too close for politeness. Using his height to dominate her, he said quietly _"Nothing_ is going to deter me. _No one_ is going to stop me. If you don't agree, then I will simply do this in another way, without you." He gestured to the file. "Lars Sigurson may disappear, so you can't trace him;I have a contingency plan for that, too. I will go undercover and destroy his network from the inside, whether you want me to or not. _You_ get to choose only one thing. Help me, and improve the odds of my success, or stand aside. Simple choice, really."

She thought about the enormity of what the man standing beside her in the growing twilight was planning. "Sherlock, this means leaving everything behind, letting Moriarty destroy everything you are."

"I know that. The difference is that I don't care. No one has been willing to do this, no one has been able to. I'm uniquely capable of this, and I am utterly determined."

Two hours after the conversation, Sherlock's ruthless words still ringing in her ears, she didn't doubt that determination. Elizabeth took another sip of her white wine. It had warmed up in her hand; beads of condensation ran down the sides of the glass, making it slippery. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock Holmes was the only one she thought just might be able to pull it off. She made her decision, and pulled out her phone to send him a text.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _God ettermiddag, direktør Ffoukes. Hvordan liker du min norsk? __Tillat meg__å__presentere meg selv__, __mitt navn__er__Lars__Sigurson . _ In Norwegian, that translates as "Good afternoon, Director Ffoukes. How do you like my Norwegian? Allow me to indtroduce myself; my name is Lars Sigursson." Well, at least that's what Google translate says…

On another note. I am posting this early under the assumption that at some point tonight the St Valentine's Day storm will cut our power and we could be off for a while. Ground water is already half way across my dining room, headed for my living room. The tanker we had coming into the village, which allowed us to flush out loos has disappeared, so life just got a lot worse for us. If you want to cheer me up, review. If you can review a back story of mine, do- it's about the only thing I am looking forward to these days...


	4. Chapter 4

**Fallen Angel ****Chapter Four**

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**Sowing Dissent Part Four**

* * *

Mycroft closed his file and pushed his chair back from the glass-topped table. Alongside him, the other three heads of the security services also started to pack up. They had survived the tedium of another meeting at Portcullis House in front of the Parliamentary Intelligence Oversight Committee. Created by the coalition government now in power, the twelve MPs and peers selected for their supposed expertise in "sensitive" subjects presented the services with a challenge. In a representative democracy, elected and appointed politicians liked to think that they could exercise some degree of control over the 'machinery' of state security, but it was always an exercise of shadow-boxing. They could not be trusted with either the whole picture or the minutiae of detail, yet appearances had to be maintained, and the four directors routinely showed up once a quarter to deflect questions and play their part in the farce.

As he stood, the Chair of the Committee caught his eye. Lady Smallwood was from a minor aristocratic family, who had become a life peer on her own merits for "services to the academic sector" before marrying Lord Smallwood, a Conservative Party whip in the House of Lords. Unlike her husband, she was no fool. A former university lecturer with a ferociously bright mind, behind a rather blonde exterior, she was one of the few on the committee that Mycroft could just about tolerate. As people started to leave the committee room, she came over to him.

"A word, Mister Holmes, if you wouldn't mind? In private. I've asked Elizabeth Ffoukes to join us as well. We can do it here once the others have gone, because at least this room is secure. It was swept by the surveillance team just before we started."

He wondered what she might want to talk about. Nothing on the agenda today had been particularly sensitive. Most of the conversation had been about the continuing deterioration of the situation in Syria, and whether the intelligence services were being leaned on by the Americans or anyone else to provide evidence that would warrant intervention. _They're still all obsessed with Iraq and the fiasco of non-existent weapons of mass destruction. _ Stable doors, bolted horses; it all bored Mycroft. Politicians seemed congenitally unable to stop fighting yesterday's battles.

Elizabeth had not moved from her seat. Mycroft studied her. The teal blue suit she was wearing was a little sharper edged and more professional than she usually wore to this committee, where she had no need to impress anyone. _Why the battle dress?_ Mycroft always wore a tailored three piece suit that was immaculately detailed; it spoke of power, authority, tradition- and wealth. He never altered, lest someone be able to deduce something significant about him because of his choice.

And there were other signs. He knew Elizabeth well enough to see that she'd spent more time on her make-up, and her salt and pepper hair had been blown dry with more attention to detail this morning that usual. He could detect certain signs of nervousness in her posture, her focus now on the papers that they had been using during the meeting. He realised that she was only using those papers to keep her eyes down; there was certainly nothing of real interest in the contents. That fact put him slightly on edge. _Not a casual meeting then. _ Lady Smallwood had told her about the topic before the meeting.

Intrigued, he waited for the room to clear. As soon as the three were alone, Lady Smallwood walked to the door and locked it- an extraordinary act that startled Mycroft.

"A rather dramatic step, I suppose, but it is important that we are not interrupted. Please sit down, Mister Holmes." She pulled a chair out from the table and drew it so she was sitting opposite Elizabeth, pointing to another at the end of the table, so that Mycroft would be sitting between them.

Alarm bells started to ring in his mind. This was something planned between the two women, and he had been kept out of the loop.

Elizabeth pulled a sheet from her file and brought it to the top. Even from his sideways position, Mycroft knew that it was not one of the papers used in the meeting. It was hand-written in Elizabeth's careful script, only one paragraph with a number of bullet points below. She looked up at him for the first time, and he was startled to see…concern, even compassion in her eyes when she looked at him.

"We've been informed that a group of private individuals in a place that doesn't really acknowledge a government apprehended an individual three days ago. This person is of considerable interest to us. The situation creates an opportunity that we intend taking, even though it needs to be on a deniable basis. All evidence…" she gestured at the sheet, "…will be destroyed and this conversation will be denied, should anyone ask about it subsequently."

He was intrigued. "Who is the person of interest?" Calmness personified, his tone came out slightly bored.

"James Moriarty."

Mycroft stilled. "Then someone has been very stupid. Shall I start looking for the inevitable fallout? A series of escalating crimes leading to something rather horrendously bloody in that country, I presume."

Elizabeth shook her head. "He's being held by a terrorist group in Saharan Africa that really has no working government for him to hold to ransom. There is no government involved in holding him, and scarcely any viable targets on which he could wreak havoc."

Mycroft allowed his left eyebrow to rise. "How convenient. Is it remotely possible that one of the man's own clients has finally had enough and taken him to task? That would be… poetic justice."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Alas, no. The evidence suggests this is simply an exercise in private enterprise. That said, it presents us with an opportunity that we have decided to take. In fact, we've actually been invited to do so."

"By whom?"

"By Moriarty himself. You see, he thinks it was engineered by us- according to the terrorist cell holding him. So, he has told them that he won't speak to anyone there, only to someone with a UK passport. So we have to send someone down there to make sure he knows it wasn't us, someone who can also perhaps forestall any punitive actions that his network might take against the UK."

Mycroft sniffed dismissively. "The better choice would be to avoid the whole problem- just pay whatever ransom the privateers want and get him out. He might even be grateful and leave us alone for a while."

"What, and miss the opportunity to see what can be extracted from him, in exchange for getting him out?" Mrs Ffoukes made her surprise clear. "The one chance we've had in a decade to hold his feet to the fire and you're willing to let him off lightly? You surprise me, Mycroft."

Lady Smallwood shifted in her seat slightly. The exchanges between Elizabeth Ffoukes and Mycroft Holmes had been going on as if she wasn't in the room. Her movement made Mycroft realise he was missing something important. She was there for a reason, yet the exchange so far was between two heads of security arguing about tactics. He broke off eye contact with Elizabeth, and subjected Lady Smallwood to his forensic gaze.

The two women might share a common first name, but there the similarity ended. Elizabeth Smallwood was what one might call 'an English rose'. Finely chiselled features, porcelain fair skin, she projected femininity. She worked hard to maintain it; the blonde hair was dyed very well, her make-up carefully applied to mask the fine webbing of wrinkles that graced the corners of her eyes. Now in her early sixties, she still had a beauty that would turn men's heads when she walked into a room. Of course, Mycroft was immune to such an effect, but he knew that she had leveraged herself into positions of influence by using it to her advantage.

She was now trying to meet his gaze without betraying anything at all, but he was able to discern that she, too, was nervous. _So, there is more to come._

He returned to Elizabeth and decided to cut to the chase. "What is it that you aren't telling me?"

When she didn't reply, Mycroft had a sudden flash of deductive insight. His eyes widened. "You're going to tell me that Moriarty is right. We…or, rather _you_, are behind his capture. Have you taken leave of your senses?" He let his incredulity show. "What possible benefit could outweigh the risks? You will stop this idiocy immediately and order his release."

Lady Smallwood put her clasped hands onto the glass-topped table. "That is not a matter for you, Mister Holmes."

He turned back to her, and said very quietly but with deadly intent, "Nor, madam, is it a matter for _you_. I have no idea why you are even here, but you'd best hold your tongue while people who do know the consequences of this lunacy try to resurrect the situation."

That made her angry, and she snapped back at him, "You know that I am a personal friend of the Prime Minister. He is aware of the situation, although of course he will deny it if anyone was ever foolish enough to ask. I am his proxy here. And you are here to listen to what role you are going to play in this exercise. So, you can climb down off your high horse now and pay attention." There was something of the school headmistress in her tone.

He controlled his reaction. He _never_ showed his anger in a negotiation. But he was _enraged_ at her…presumption. How on earth was this possible? How could Elizabeth Ffoukes have connived with the Prime Minister to do something as daft as trying to take Moriarty on? It made _no_ sense. She was not stupid. She was not driven by an electoral timetable. There were no votes in taking on Moriarty. Above all else, she knew exactly how the scenario would play out- in the same way that every security service chief knew. The Irishman was untouchable.

He leaned back in his chair, consciously stopping any body language that might be construed as defensive. "Director General, _you_ of all people are fully aware of the consequences. If you have not advised the Prime Minister of these, then I am more than happy to oblige. Moriarty's contingency plans mean that his network will initiate an escalating programme of crimes for every day he is held. At what point will you let him go? When he's stolen the Crown Jewels? Assassinated the Prime Minister? Set off a dirty bomb at St Paul's cathedral? What possible information of his could be worth taking such a risk?"

"None. This isn't about getting information from him."

That answer confused Mycroft utterly. "Then what possible justification could there be for drawing his fire onto this country?"

"Because that is only the first step. This incarceration is not about _getting_ information from him; it's about _giving_ him information."

Mycroft began to consider how best to deal with a DG of MI6 being sectioned for insanity and removed from office.

Through his peripheral vision, he saw that Lady Smallwood had allowed a small smile to form on her lips. She was looking at the woman across the table. "I never thought I'd see the day; Mycroft Holmes, lost for words. You'd better put him out of his misery, Mrs Ffoukes."

As Mycroft glared at her, Elizabeth drew a deep breath. "It's about destroying his network's faith in his infallibility. Of course, he will be released before anything _too_ serious. But you're going to extract information from him, enough to solve or to prevent at least some of the earlier crimes from happening. And that will be seen by his people, his clients, his fallen angels as evidence that he has a weakness."

Mycroft heard the "you" in that statement, but decided to focus first on the last word. "Weakness? That man has no weaknesses."

"Yes, he does. Like someone else we know, he gets _bored_. And he likes to play with the Holmes Brothers. So that's what we are going to let him do. Only, this time it's _our_ game, and you're going to win."

Mycroft Holmes went very, very still. The silence lengthened. The two women exchanged glances across the table.

"I'm going to _kill_ my brother."

Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. "Funny- that's what he said you would say."


	5. Chapter 5

**Fallen Angel Chapter Five **

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Five**

* * *

When the private jet's door was opened, the heat of the desert rushed in almost as fast as the air-conditioned coolness could escape. For once in his life, Mycroft wished he could shed the suit. But, given who he was about to meet, there was no chance of that happening. The twelve agents who accompanied him on the flight now swarmed out onto the tarmac of the pot-holed runway. Four would remain behind to protect the pilot and the plane. Like some exotic migratory bird blown off course, the sleek jet looked incongruous in this war-torn, failed state which seldom if ever saw such expensive examples of aviation engineering within its airspace, let alone sitting on the ground. As such, it needed to be protected from predatory bandits almost as much as the life of the man who had been carried in it.

The other eight men were equally well armed, and being quite obvious about it, in order to deter anyone thinking that the plane's passenger was an easy target. The two long bodied land rovers that met them by the runway were beaten up but their engines were well serviced. They needed to be, given the long cross-Saharan journeys they routinely made, moving illegal people and cargo from sub-Saharan Africa to the oil fields of Libya and back again. The drivers were members of AQIM, a group affiliated with al Qaeda. Re-armed by weaponry flowing south as Libya collapsed, the mercenary militia sometimes agreed to hire themselves out as smugglers and kidnappers for ransom when not pursuing their own political and religiously inspired agendas. Mycroft assumed that somehow they had been made an offer they could not refuse. He'd been told to keep his identity to himself. The AQIM men holding Moriarty had been told only that an English speaking interrogator would be sent.

As Mycroft climbed into the backseat of the car, one of the agents occupied the passenger seat next to the AQIM driver, and eyed him suspiciously. If he kept his sub-machine gun in his lap and pointed in a particular direction with the safety off, then it was done with obvious intent so the driver saw it. Three other agents went into the back of the land rover, and the other four went into the second car. Each man had been chosen carefully for this expedition- with considerable Saharan experience, most had been active in the liberation of Libya from Gaddafi's regime, and therefore knowledgeable about local languages and tribal factional infighting. "You'll be safe, Mycroft; we'll make sure of it."

He _loathed_ field work. The people were bad enough, but the physical conditions were so…distracting. Added to that discomfort was his smoldering anger about the very idea of what he was being forced to do.

He'd been left with no illusions. Lady Smallwood conveyed the intent of the Prime Minister himself. If Mycroft did not agree there and then to interrogate the man being held captive in Africa, he would be fired. The very idea of being _fired_ was enough to enrage Mycroft, but what made his blood really boil was that he'd been manoeuvred into this position by his very own little brother.

"We're telling you only what you need to know in order to do what is necessary, Mister Holmes." Lady Smallwood was playing a part in this that far outweighed her usual role as chair of the Parliamentary Oversight Committee. "I am the 'cut-out', Mister Holmes. I protect the Prime Minister from what he doesn't need to know about what is going on, so he can deny everything if he needs to do so. You know how this works."

He had raged against it. "Elizabeth Ffoukes, you _know_ how reckless and impulsive my brother is. Whatever nonsense he has concocted, it won't work. He's not to be trusted in this."

The DG just looked at him with compassion. "I know it's hard to believe, Mycroft. But, you're wrong. He's the only one able to pull this off. You don't know- and _won't_ know about the whole thing- until it's over. That's to protect _you_. I'm in something of the same boat. He's only told me what I need to know; again to protect _me._ No one in any official capacity is going to be implicated by his plan. We will only know what we need to know- nothing more. The only thing you have to know is that I agree with Sherlock on this-the first step, the interrogation, will work better if you do it. And that raises the odds of success. You need to do this for the good of the country, and in order to improve Sherlock's chances of getting out of this alive."

He sighed. "You don't understand. However persuasive he's been, and I know just how persuasive that can be, he still won't be able to hold it together. He's just not the long term strategist. Brilliant? Yes, in his own way. But you cannot trust him to deliver something like this."

He'd argued, he'd threatened to resign. And at every point, she had a counter-argument ready. "He said that you would say that" became a frequent reply to his mounting anger. _I've been out-manoeuvred by my little brother._ Never, ever, in his entire life had Mycroft been quite so _annoyed_.

Conveniently, Sherlock had gone 'missing' just when Mycroft wanted to find him and disabuse him of any idea of continuing with this ridiculous 'plan' of his. John Watson picked up the call made to Sherlock that followed as soon as Mycroft could escape from the two women.

"Where is he?" Mycroft did not care that the doctor would be able to detect the degree of heat in that question, uttered as it was through severely clenched teeth.

"Don't know, Mycroft. He went walkabout sometime last night. It was odd; Sherlock doesn't usually leave his phone behind. If your people can't find him, then I assume that he doesn't want to be found. Should I be worried?"

No point in getting civilians involved, so Mycroft simply told John to inform him the moment Sherlock made contact. "It matters, John. This is not a personal request, but a matter of national security. Whatever he tells you, ignore it and phone me."

None of the five known bolt holes yielded up the coward. And then Mycroft ran out of time; the jet was waiting at Brize Norton airfield, and he had no choice but to go blind into this encounter with Moriarty. It had taken him hours on the plane to get his anger under control. The next time he saw Sherlock, he would make sure his brother would regret this more than anything else he'd ever done.

Six hours of flying and four hours of hot dusty driving later, the convoy arrived at what appeared to be an old concrete bunker, a relic of some forgotten military defence structure, built when this part of a former French colony had been considered a bastion against Nazi encroachment in Northern Africa. Two AQIM men, armed to the teeth, met them as they got out of the cars. Mycroft remained in the car until the leader of his team nodded. Arrangements had been made in advance; the team leader explained that the holding facility for the prisoner would be lightly manned- only a half dozen armed men were left behind once the prisoner was secured. _But things can always go wrong._ He had done his stint of field work twenty years ago; enough to know that it was not his naatural habitat. Mycroft was not a coward, but he knew his own limitations. And being at the wrong end of a machine gun wielded by the Sahara's local branch of Al Qaeda was not something he enjoyed.

Once escorted through the rusty yet surprisingly solid door to the bunker, Mycroft was immediately aware that outward appearances were deceiving. He welcomed the efficient air conditioning that dealt with the discomfort of his tailored cotton shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He insisted on being taken to a toilet, where he washed his face, to remove the dust and sweat of the journey. The mirror over the basin reflected back a face that to his eyes still betrayed his anger. He took several minutes to breathe deeply and to settle himself. When he checked the mirror again, he looked every inch the 'Ice Man', as Moriarty had called him.

Whatever he thought about the professionalism of the AQIM movement, Mycroft could not help but be impressed by the facility. KFR* was obviously a money-spinner for the group, and they had invested in strong security cells. He was led to one, and admitted by a side door to the viewing gallery. There, behind a mirrored window looking into the semi-darkness of an interrogation room, he laid eyes on Moriarty for the very first time.

* * *

**Author's note**: KFR= kidnap for ransom, a fundraising activity practiced by many terrorist cells.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fallen Angel Chapter Six**

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Six**

* * *

The dark-haired man at the table sat with his eyes closed. His face bore the evidence of his disagreements with his jailers. Beneath the bruises and scrapes, Mycroft saw features that were rather youthful for someone who was listed on file as 37 years old. Under a high forehead, the psychopath's face was not particularly memorable. He would make sure that photos were taken before they departed. Facial Recognition imaging would now have something to work on in the future. _At least one useful thing will emerge from this fiasco._

Moriarty was bound to the chair with leather restraints at wrists and ankles. His once white t shirt bore traces of blood, sweat and vomit. But, he sat as if he were comfortable, with the faintest of smiles. Waiting. Patient. Confident.

According to his agent team leader, the Irishman had only said one sentence in the four days since he'd been brought here. The AQIM had recorded it and sent it to MI6. In the plane, Mycroft played and re-played the recording: "I have nothing to say to anyone else so just bugger off and get the Iceman here, if you would be so fecking kind." It was a voice he recognised well; the exchange of phone calls during the Bond Air business left an indelible memory for Mycroft.

According to the AQIM captors, nothing broke that calm, no amount of force or inflicted pain had made Moriarty utter a word since; they'd not managed to get much of a shout or scream out of him. It was as if the man had found the means to switch off the connection between his body and his brain. They said he was a _Djinn_- an evil spirit in human form. They tried sleep deprivation, drugs, electric shock, noise sensitisation. Even waterboarding yesterday made no difference. Every time, the Irishman came up to consciousness wearing that same little smile.

Mycroft sighed and turned away from the mirrored window, nodding to the agent beside him and to the AQIM man he'd recognised as the team leader, just from the authority in his stance. The guard opened the door to the interrogation room and brought in a second chair, to sit across the metal table from the captive. When Mycroft came into the room and took his seat, the detainee made no movement; he didn't open his eyes. But, the smile on his face broadened.

"Oh, great day in the morning. The mountain has arrived at Mohammed's request. I can _smell_ you, Holmes. The smugness just exudes from every fibre of Jermyn Street tailoring, every strand of fine Egyptian cotton in that shirt, from your very pores sweating through the posh boy deodorant in this desert heat- it's just…delicious…." Jim grinned as he opened his eyes. So dark, the pupils were dilated and showed almost no iris. _The effects of the drugs they've tried using?_

"So, I'm here. How can I help you?" It was said in as mild a voice as possible, and as nonchalant as if Mycroft were answering the telephone.

"Ah, to be sure, you can help me a lot. But, not just yet, I think; no, no, no- I want to thank you first. Such a wonderful opportunity you've given me to demonstrate the power of my network and my little dark angels. Stage managed to perfection, my little heavenly chorus is singing its heart out and you are the one who is being cast out of your safe little haven of power. You'll be a fallen angel soon, Mycroft Holmes."

The man showed no sign of pain from his obvious injuries. In his many years of security work, Mycroft had seen men try to be stoical through interrogations; oddly, the most macho in attitude were often the first to crack. But never had he seen someone as _oblivious_ as Moriarty to whatever had been inflicted. It was rather…unnerving.

The Irishman's delight was just singing out of his face. "Oh, joy of joys- by the look on your face, I can see that you've been sent here against your will. It's just too, too dee-light-full for words. Made every little bit of annoyance before now worth it, don't you know?" Jim sniggered. "You won't be able to hold me, Holmes."

"Who said I wanted to?" replied Mycroft in a slightly bored tone.

This broadened the smile into an outright grin. "Bless you, that's such very good news. I am so glad that I had not underestimated you. That little confession of yours makes this just that teensy bit more enjoyable, seeing as we are both on the same page here. Well, as my little friends have demonstrated, every day your compatriots keep me locked up will see yet another crime committed. Four so far, each one bigger and better than the other."

Mycroft nodded. "Tell me something I don't know." Again the slight tone of boredom. He was well aware of the escalating toll. The first few had been burglaries – an important piece of art gone missing, then a bank raid, eventually a rare diamond from the Natural History Museum- each item stolen had been replaced with a Monopoly Game's "Get out of Jail Free" card. Just yesterday, another series of simultaneous thefts, specifically targeting the individual members of the COBRA committee. Even the Prime Minister's Office in Number 10 had reported a theft. Nothing significant- just a personal item from the desk of the Prime Minister. Only Mycroft had been spared.

"Did you like that touch? Everyone but you. I don't know what crime they actually committed but the fourth day was designed to leave the message about _you_. And they got it, didn't they? Served you up nice and fresh, I could just eat you alive, Mycroft Holmes. The grub is rather basic here, but seeing you here is just like ambrosia- food for my very soul, you are."

He rolled his eyes and looked coyly at Mycroft, whose face betrayed absolutely nothing of what he was feeling. After years of practice, he'd learned how to control every facet of his outward personality. His anger was completely camouflaged.

Moriarty just shrugged his shoulders at Mycroft's lack of reaction. "All a bit of a lark? I assume it's all been kept out of the press back in Blighty, but don't worry, when the crimes start escalating now, it won't be possible to keep them out of the meedja. I told them to start small- steal a few things, interesting things- be _creative_, I told them. So far, it's only property, but I'm going to steal something far more valuable from you, Mycroft Holmes. Not a petty burglary. Want something _much_ more important from you."

The Irishman smirked. "The funny thing is, I know that I won't actually have to steal if from you; you'll give it up willingly."

Mycroft looked at him, really looked at him now. His bored air was gone, replaced by the kind of intensity that he reserved for very few problems in his life.

"Ah, now that has got your attention, hasn't it? Hmm… is the Iceman feeling the heat a little more now? I do hope so. That thought has kept me together over the past four days while your little munchkins try to do their worst." He nodded his head from side to side, as if savouring the moment before continuing, "By keeping me here, illegally, without charge, well- it's unlawful detention, isn't it? I'm entitled to face my accusers, to due process, to trial by my peers, but we both know that isn't going to happen. Well, to start with, I mean, really? I _have_ no peers!" Moriarty giggled. "Of course, you are a Peer, and if the Government hadn't mucked about with things, you'd be a member of the House of Lords. But, even so…" He shook his head and gave an exaggerated frown. "Even _you_ aren't my peer." He stared straight at Mycroft. "And of course, you'll never put me inside a court room; you'd be too embarrassed when the judicial decision went against you and in my favour."

Mycroft said mildly, "Perhaps if you were to confess to something we could actually charge you with, then the machinery of due process could be yours, too."

"Do me the courtesy of not insulting my intelligence. In return, I'm going to do you the courtesy of explaining our little game now, _Mister_ Holmes, so please pay attention. For every piece of information you give me, I will give you a little clue. If you're very, very good, then you can use it to block my network on the day- so it's one less crime that you have to deal with. Without the clue you haven't a hope in hell of stopping the crimes; you could have the cretins in this jail beat me to death and they won't get the so-called truth out of me about these crimes, because, quite simply, I don't know enough about them. Ultimate failsafe, don't you think? All set up as contingency plans years ago, and these crimes will take place without me knowing much about them. You can tell the eejits who authorised this little game that they will only realise that my team's work been at work when the crime scene is discovered. And every crime will get worse."

Mycroft affected his bored air again. "Crime happens; the world continues. Why do you think that would matter?"

"_DON'T PLAY THE FOOL!"_ The shout was startling after the conversational tone. "We both know where this is headed, even if those other morons that agreed to this aren't able to see it coming. Mind you," he giggled, "I don't think they see much beyond their silly little noses, do they?"

Jim tilted his head and smiled at Mycroft, looking up at the older man through his eyelashes, coyly, as if he were flirting. "You know all this. Must be _so_ annoying that the only one able to see the whole picture as well as you do is little old me. If only they'd believed you. Shame that- but I guess the Jumbo Jet fiasco made them doubt you."

The Irishman smiled conspiratorially. "Well, buck up, my little snowman. Winter's coming and you'll soon be able to say 'I told you so' in that oh so posh and superior voice of yours. You'll have guessed that we're close to the first boundary now; so far, it's been property that has been targeted. Soon, very soon, people will start getting hurt. And the longer I'm in here, the more hurt they get, until we reach the next boundary and people start dying. And the longer I stay in here, the more people die. Until, at last, you'll be presented with a price tag of my continued custody that is simply too high to pay. What will be the decision point I wonder? One innocent victim? Twenty? Two hundred, or two thousand? You know as well as I that they will let me go in the end. Save the innocents and keep the peace by giving me what I want to know."

Mycroft returned the gaze with a quiet aplomb. "I thought you knew _everything_. That's surely what you claim."

"Nooo, not quite _everything, _otherwise what's the point of this little charade? No, we do this properly you and I, equal to equal. You give me something and I concede something in return. That's how it works. What do I want to know? Well, that's simple. Nothing too sinister- no missile defence plans, no MOD codes, nothing _treasonous_; after all, you have Good Queen Bess to protect. Anyway, I can get all that without you. All I want from you are the easy things, starting with just one juicy fact about your little brother's life. Something personal, something not known by anyone else. The information serves no purpose except to satisfy my personal curiosity. For each fact, I will give you a clue. Just a teensy one, something that you will have to work really, really hard at. If you do succeed, then you can subtract a day, a crime. I can't give you any more, because I don't actually know any more. But, you fancy yourself as the clever one of the Holmes brothers. Let's see if you can do it."

"I have more important things to do than play games with you." Mycroft put some patrician distain in the tone of his voice. He'd had years of experience in shrugging off the demands of a little brother forever asking him to play some game or another.

Jim just laughed and leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Does the heat here bother you? Can't be amused with hanging about, wasting time? Okay. I hear you, so I'll make this really simple. Remember the old game of Twenty Questions? Well, four have already past- too late to catch that particular bus. Tell me answers to sixteen of my questions, and I will put the final crime on the table, so you can get them to let me out, and save an awful lot of people's lives. You get to go home early. You'll be the hero. Justify their faith in you. Confirm their hope that you are the one who can be trusted to put Queen and Country before familial loyalty. And, finally, you'll be able to prove to those critics that you don't put your brother's weaknesses above the greater good."

Mycroft had known instinctively that it would probably come to this. So, obviously had Sherlock. That's why he had engineered this whole confrontation. Mycroft would be forced to betray his brother's secrets in exchange for the clues to stop the crimes. The process would undermine faith in the man's infallibility amongst the network and his clients. To Moriarty, it would feel a victory. And it would further fuel his obsession with the Holmes. _Oh, Sherlock, you are selling your very soul to this devil in the hope that it will bring him down. _To be the instrument of his brother's downfall was...painful. For a moment, the sense of _deja vu_ was overwhelming, before he mentally shook the image of another brother's face out of his mind. _HE deserved it; Sherlock doesn't- or at least he doesn't for anything other than hubris and stupidity._ He said nothing. The constriction across his chest had to be controlled, so no moment of weakness was seen by his enemy across the table.

But Moriarty's observational skills were as good as Sherlock's. He smirked. "_GOTCHA, _Mycroft Holmes. Can any one man's privacy be worth so much? Can a brother who loathes you be entitled to expect your support when it comes at such a price? Don't we all have to make little sacrifices along the way? Just think of it, duty comes first; family second. Besides, hasn't everyone always told you that he wasn't worth the effort of caring? Just give him up. Everyone except Sherlock will understand it."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. Let Moriarty think he's won. _Oh, Sherlock, you were SO right about this._ The look of pain that he put on his face was not forced or anything but genuine. _Brother mine, do you REALLY understand where this is going to end?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Fallen Angel Chapter Seven**

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Seven**

* * *

Several hours later, the fencing match was getting serious tiresome. The Irishman tried to make Mycroft feel uncomfortable about giving away his brother's secrets, to use the process as a way of getting to the elder Holmes. But, Mycroft handled the exchange as if it were a boring bureaucratic treaty negotiation. He put distance between himself and the subject matter, doling the details out about his brother as if it were of no more concern to him than a bus timetable. He simply wouldn't play Moriarty's game.

"You're no fun, Frosty. I want you to suffer a bit, be embarrassed about all the foibles and misdemeanours of your junkie brother."

"You are sadly mistaken if you think that. Caring is not an advantage. I am too aware of his deficits and always have been. What surprises me, Mister Moriarty, is why you _do_ seem to care so much. Rather a weakness of yours, don't you think?"

That made the Irishman tilt his jaw and flex it. "You don't understand him at all, do you? Sherlock is unique. A matter of spotting a kindred spirit; I have no doubt that he has annoyed you all his life, an affront to your professional pride, no doubt." He put on an exaggerated parental tone, "Such a disappointment, Sherlock; why can't you be more like your brother?" He smiled wolfishly at Mycroft. "And when he doesn't behave, then it's 'off you go now Sherlock, be a good boy and do your time in Rehab.' You try to clip his wings but still he manages to fly away. He could be just like me, if you hadn't got in the way."

Mycroft looked at him with a raised left eyebrow. "Yes, exactly. That's why I have."

"Right, time to get down and dirty, Holmes. I can give you the clue you need to break tomorrow's crime. Day Five…" He made an exaggerated show of trying to remember, looking up at the ceiling as if he was racking his brain. Then a great laugh erupted. "Oh, _now_ I remember; this one's _fun_. It's going to be a joke that gets plastered all over the papers, but, uh oh…turns out someone gets truly embarrassed and then it's not so funny anymore."

"What do you want in exchange?" Mycroft put as much tedium into his tone as he could. "This isn't a Turkish bazaar. I won't haggle. Information for information."

"I want to know all about _Daddy. T_he first time Daddy rejected your little brother. All the details please, please, pleeeese- why, how long, and what happened next. After all, it has to be the most formative experience of his life- being told he's too defective to be a part of the family. Must have had consequences. Maybe I can use that to leverage a bit of co-operation. I love the challenge of trying to win him over to the dark side. Make him one of my minions, not yours. That would _irk_ you, I think."

Undaunted, Mycroft told him the facts.* Unembellished, it sounded like a medical report on some anonymous patient. No matter how the Irishman tried to poke at him, to provoke an emotional reaction, Mycroft did not rise to the bait.

Twenty four hours later, Mycroft had a much better idea of where it was going to end. Moriarty was clearly insanely obsessed with Sherlock. The Irishman was willingly giving up what little information he had about the crimes being planned, in exchange for personal details about Sherlock. Mycroft had drawn out the information he needed to work on blocking the next five crimes. He was satisfied.

So was the man across the table, whose smile was still ever-present, despite the array of bruises, dirt and stubble on his face. "I must admit, Frosty, you've been most informative; I really hadn't realised just what a naughty boy Sherlock has been. He's not cold, like you, more my kind of man. You know, I am really surprised that he hasn't ended up batting for my side. He's ideal for it; no sense of morals at all. Takes one to know one."

Mycroft looked a sleep-deprived Moriarty in the eye. The stench of sweat, blood and vomit was...rather revolting. The Irishman smirked. "Well, I may not be the belle of the ball, but you look positively _rumpled_ Holmes. And somehow I think my threshold for degradation is much higher than yours. So, you've come to a decision, haven't you?"

"Yes." Late last night, after a lengthy secure satellite call to London passing on the likely targets of crime number five and how to block it, Mycroft realised that it would definitely be easier just to get it all over with. Despite Moriarty's definite masochistic tendencies, he'd had his fun now and probably wanted to go home. So, this afternoon he proceeded with a different negotiating strategy.

A bit of deflection at first: "Good news. We stopped the first one I got from you yesterday, by the way. Rather child's play that one." The case had involved a sting operation, filming an egotistical Government Minister implying that he would take cash in exchange for a change on a bill going through Parliament. Embarrassing during an election campaign, but blocking it hadn't been that hard.

"Mmmm, good. Nice of me to let you build a little confidence up, isn't it? And all you had to give me in exchange was that tragic little tale of Mummy dying and Daddy carting Sherlock off to the loony bin. Nice to know that he has _form_." The smirk looked odd, given the stubble and dirt on his face.

Mycroft affected a sigh of boredom. "I have better things to do than to waste time in this little strip tease, so let's accelerate things. We've survived four days' worth of crime and I've deflected the fifth. We've horse-traded for the next five. By your own reckoning, that leaves ten more crimes. Write down twelve questions. I get to choose which ten I will answer, which I will do when I return. Before you give me a clue, I will give you an answer. Prioritise your questions, so they match the severity of the crime in sequence. Have we a deal?" He put as much nonchalance in the tone was he thought he could get away with. Mycroft withdrew from his inside jacket pocket a small pad of paper, which he placed in front of Moriarty. He pulled out his Mont Blanc pen and opened it, placing it carefully beside the pad.

Moriarty wiggled his fingers in his restrained right hand. "_Quid pro quo_, Iceman. If you get to ignore some of my questions, I get to drop some of my network's crimes out of the discussion. Want to take that risk? That something might be a little too close to home? I mean, my network could always throw something at the royal that Irene had fun thrashing. Or maybe one of the crimes that gets slipped by you is my minions' attempt to expose Sherlock's little bad habits?" He giggled. "Who knows, they might get inventive enough to hack into his blog site and start telling the truth rather than that preposterous drivel that his pet doctor posts. Land him in a libel or slander case? Why not? Hmm…which ones shall I drop out?" He closed his eyes, as if going through the list.

Mycroft manufactured an elaborate sigh. "Very well; one for one. You overestimate the degree to which I care about Sherlock's reputation. I mean, really- _blogging_." He packed as much distain into the word as possible.

Moriarty waggled the fingers of his restrained hand. "Only one problem with your scenario…you'll have to undo the strap."

"That's no problem. There will be two AQIM guards and one of mine, all armed, in separate corners of this room watching you write."

oOo

Five hours and forty five minutes later, Mycroft was back on the pot-holed tarmac beside the jet. The hot and dusty drive back had soured his mood even more. He had the mother of all headaches brewing behind his eyes, but he knew he would need to spend the whole of the flight deducing what he could from the crumbs of information that Moriarty had given him about the upcoming crimes.

At least the Irishman agreed to set them in escalating order, which in theory gave him more time to deal with the worse ones. Of course, it could all be a ruse, and the crimes would start occurring out of sequence. So, best solved _now_, if at all possible.

Mycroft was under no illusions. The two Elizabeths would judge his mission to be "successful", even though Mycroft felt it had been anything but. He did manage to extract what he had been told to get, but at a cost of too much information that would be used against his brother. That made him even angrier at Sherlock than he had been before he went to the desert.

Soon enough the mad man would get down to the business of wreaking his revenge. Mycroft had been in enough negotiations in his time to know a defeat when it happened. This was not a score draw, but a decisive one-nil defeat that his brother would end up paying for- with everything that he should have valued: his reputation, his work, the people around him, even his life. Mycroft saw the possible scenarios playing out- and far too many of them ended with Sherlock dead. Worse still, some saw Sherlock joining Moriarty, a fate _worse_ than death, in Mycroft's view. Both outcomes were simply _unacceptable_.

Once he got onto the plane and started to cool off in the air conditioning, he contacted the two men he had left behind at the desert installation. Bounced off a satellite, the call was picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?"

"All right. Let him go."

"There's something you should see, sir. The AQIM guards only let me see it just now. I'll attach the photo."

Mycroft looked down at the photo icon that appeared on his phone and clicked on it.

It was the inside of Moriarty's cell. The Irishman had managed to smuggle something into the cell and used it to scratch Sherlock's name dozens and dozens of times- on the walls, the back of the door, even scratched the name into the one-way mirror in reverse, so that whoever was looking in would see the name the right way around.

Mycroft felt his suit jacket's inside pocket- and realised that his Mont Blanc pen was missing. The irony of it being used to demonstrate Moriarty's obsession was not lost on the elder Holmes. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the scent of his own sweat, and the cling of his soaked cotton shirt. The desert sand was in his nostrils, the dust raised by the Landrovers gave his skin a chalky feel. Utterly disgusting.

He felt used and cornered. That was a new experience. If anyone had cared to ask before this fiasco, he would have willingly admitted that his own skills as a manipulator were far superior to Sherlock's. Whatever his brother had tried over the decades, he's never managed to outwit him before. It was deeply, deeply annoying. He breathed in and calmed himself. He needed to make sure that his brother knew the truth depth of his anger. If that dissuaded the idiot from this ridiculous crusade against Moriarty, then that would be good- unlikely, but good. On the assumption that it would not deter, Mycroft started his contingency planning- the means by which he would get Sherlock into an institution where he would be protected from being a threat to both himself and to others. _I do this for your own sake, brother. And for mine._

* * *

**Author's note**: the story of Sherlock and his father is told in _Periodic Tales_. How Mycroft has dealt with Sherlock over his life is told in earlier chapters of that story, and also in _Collateral Damage_ and _SideLined_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fallen Angel Chapter Eight**

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Eight**

* * *

"Hand me the spanner, will you, Mrs Hudson?" John had his head and half his torso under the sink in the kitchen, inside the cupboard whose contents had been carefully placed on the dish drainer.

Martha Hudson passed him the tool. She had lost her wedding ring down the sink when she was trying to unblock it, and was in a right state. "Oh, please tell me I haven't lost it for good; I will never forgive myself." She was standing over John's prone body, wringing her hands in her apron.

Sherlock was working at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the two of them. He sighed. "It's not like you want to remember your husband. He was the one executed for a double murder and drugs dealing, in case you've forgotten."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Martha Hudson snapped. "I don't expect you to understand, but there was a time when I did love my husband a great deal. Before all that business in Florida; he wasn't always a bad person. And that ring is important to me."

"_Sentiment_." Sherlock sniffed and returned to his microscope.

Because John had his head under the sink, he didn't hear the front door onto Baker Street being shut with a bang. But Mrs Hudson did. "Now whoever could that be? Must be one of yours, Sherlock- whoever it is has a key."

Sherlock suddenly sat up straight. "Mrs Hudson, you need to leave now. In fact, take John with you. You can resume this…pointless exercise later."

She put her hands on her hips. "You're impossible. First, you leave a sink so disgusting that I have to clean it, then you won't help me find my ring, and you force John into doing it instead. Now because you've got someone coming to see you, you're being rude in the hope I will go away."

Under the sink, John grunted. The spanner was slipping around the main joint of the S bend, and he would need to find a pair of ratchet pliers instead. He slid himself out onto the kitchen floor, and sat up. "Is it a client, Sherlock? If so, then I need to be here so you don't bite someone's head off. You've been foul tempered all day."

The doctor could hear footsteps coming up the stairs and then stopping at the door into the flat. The kitchen door was closed, so whoever it was would probably come into the living room first. Sherlock was already in motion, and had taken up a position by the fireplace. John got the strange sense that Sherlock was exceedingly tense and anxious.

That impression was amplified when whoever it was opened the living room door and walked in. John couldn't see who it was from where he was in the kitchen. But Sherlock's face became hard, unreadable. Alarmed, John got to his feet and started toward the living room. Some defensive instinct made him keep the spanner in his hand.

As he came around the corner, he realised the other person who had entered the room was Mycroft. John came to a halt and looked first at Sherlock, then at his brother. _Something is very, very wrong. _ The tension in the room was electrically charged, although nothing had been said.

Sherlock broke the silence first. "John, take Mrs Hudson downstairs _now._ And go with her."

"Wise choice, brother mine." There was something menacing in the tone of Mycroft's voice that made John grip the spanner tighter. This was different from the usual banter, the occasional argument, the give and take of insults that the two brothers had exchanged over the years. Mycroft was incandescently angry, and he was making sure that his brother could see that fact.

Martha Hudson caught the tone. "Whatever is the matter, Mister Holmes? I'm sure that it can be sorted…"

Sherlock broke off his staring match with Mycroft to glance at John. "Leave. _Just do it._"

John followed the snapped order obediently, hustling a startled Mrs Hudson out the kitchen door and down the steps to her own flat. At the bottom, she turned to him with an anxious face. "John, I've never seen him like that. Sherlock's been in trouble before now, but…" she faltered, unsure of how to put her fears into words. John finished the sentence for her. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'm headed right back up there, because something tells me that Sherlock needs backup."

By the time he reached the top of the stairs and headed down to landing, John realised that Mycroft must have shut the doors. Voices could be heard, but they were not raised. This was an argument too serious for shouting. He opened the kitchen door just as he heard the sound of a vicious slap – skin against skin, it was a unique sound. He didn't need to see it to know what it was. He bolted in through the kitchen and into the living room, just as Mycroft started to unleash a second one.

But this time Sherlock ducked it neatly and moved catlike around the leather and chrome chair to put distance between him and his brother. "Getting slow in your middle age? Maybe that's why I had to do this." It was quietly said, but the taunt did little to draw John's attention away from the angry red mark blossoming on Sherlock's cheek.

"Don't you dare." Mycroft growled this in a voice that was literally choked with rage. He was totally oblivious to the fact that John was standing behind him still with a spanner in his hand. _Somehow, I don't think that clocking the British Government over the head is a good idea._ If it had been anyone else threatening bodily harm to Sherlock, he might have been tempted to do so.

"What's going on?" He said it in the clear authoritative tones of an army officer used to breaking up squaddies' brawls. But while it might have worked on countless earlier occasions, neither of the Holmes brothers gave any indication that they had even heard the question, let alone intended to answer.

Sherlock was stony faced, watching his brother as if the man were some dangerous reptile. He wasn't going to run, but neither was he going to get anywhere near the threat implied by Mycroft's posture. John didn't blame him. Mycroft was scary at the best of times; now, when he was making no attempt to control his anger, he was positively terrifying.

Mycroft's anger erupted into words. "_WHY? _ What madness possessed you to think you could do this, Sherlock? Have you been indulging in deplorable habits again? Is this the idea of a drug-addled mind or have you _finally_ gone off the deep end?" The next question was spat out with real venom. "Time to call Doctor Cohen again, is it? A stint in rehab to bring you to your senses? Yes, I think so."

That made Sherlock roll his eyes. "You've _ALWAYS_ underestimate me, brother. Time you realised that I am not ten years old anymore."

Finally, Mycroft raised his finger and pointed it emphatically at Sherlock. "You will _NOT_ win this, Sherlock. I will show them just how wrong they are about you. You won't last a month…" The sneer was evident on a face wrought with emotions that normally hid behind a mask of superior indifference. With this pronouncement, Mycroft straightened his waistcoat, collected his coat and umbrella that had been tossed aside onto the sofa, and marched down the stairs of Baker Street.

John watched him go, and then turned a startled look to his flatmate. "Just what the hell have you done, Sherlock?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Fallen Angel Chapter Nine**

* * *

**Sowing Dissent Part Nine**

* * *

As soon as the front door onto Baker Street shut behind Mycroft, John put the spanner down on the kitchen table, alongside the lab kit. He repeated his earlier question. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Nothing that concerns you." The younger man sat down on the sofa, and then languidly stretched out. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

John wasn't prepared to ignore it. "I've never seen Mycroft hit you before. He doesn't strike me as the type to get physical. He'd think himself above that sort of thing. What on earth have you done that would make him do that?"

A single grey green eye popped open and skewered John with one of Sherlock's death glares. "Why do you assume it is something that _I_ have done wrong? Perhaps it is Mycroft who is the one at fault, and I just managed to draw it to someone else's attention?"

"Okay- then what's Mycroft done wrong?"

"None of your business." The eye closed again.

No matter how John phrased the question, Sherlock wouldn't reply. Eventually, he got off the sofa and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Later that afternoon, John managed to get the sink trap off, and found Mrs Hudson's wedding ring in there, amongst the tea leaves that she had been trying to clean out.

She was so grateful that she gave him a hug. "Thank you, John. You have no idea what this means to me. I know he was a rotter at the end, but our first five years were the happiest of my life. We were young, in love and wild about each other. It was a crazy time, the late '60s. Sherlock just doesn't understand that because all he ever saw was what happened at the end."

She fixed a pot of tea for them both. "Do try to stop him from putting all those horrible experiments of his down the sink, John. I shudder to think what bits have gone down there. My poor ring- I'll have to sterilise it before wearing it again."

"Not body parts this time, Mrs Hudson, just too many tea leaves."

She tutted. "That's what tea bags are for, to stop all the bits from getting into the sink." She opened the cupboard and took down the box of tea bags, popping two into the warmed tea pot.

"Don't let him hear you. To Sherlock, the tea bag is the invention of the devil, because it allows 'rubbish to masquerade as proper tea'." He got the accent and tone just right; Sherlock was easy enough to mimic, even though the doctor didn't have as deep a speaking voice as his flatmate.

She smiled as she handed over John's mug of tea and a biscuit, and sat herself down across from him, in Sherlock's chair. "Go on, John, dunk your biscuit. I know Sherlock always thinks I'm a pleb when I do it, but he's not here. He can be a posh git, just like his brother."

As she sipped her tea, he could see she was troubled. "What's happened between those two? Did you find out what it was? I've never seen Mister Holmes like that before. Usually, he's the polite one, and Sherlock's the one who forgets his manners. I don't like it when families fight, it's just not right."

John tried to be philosophical about it. "Not all families get on. My sister and I still go at it like cats and dogs."

"Oh, John, I'm not talking about spats. Those two boys- well, seven years apart was always going to cause problems. The older one resents having to look after the baby; the younger one ends up butting up against the privilege and authority of the older one. But, underneath all their bluster, they still care. Or at least I thought they did until this afternoon. That was different. It was _scary._"

He had to agree.

The next day was no better. Sherlock just clammed up and did not speak. Not that afternoon, or evening, or the next day, at all.

On the evening of the second day, John was on his way home from a shift at the clinic when his mobile went off. It was a text from Lestrade.

**5.50pm Fancy a pint? I need a consult about a consulting detective.**

John texted back.

**5.53pm Yes, please. Frog & Firkin in fifteen.**

By the time John got there, Lestrade was already _in situ_, and two pints of London Pride bitter were waiting. The DI had just taken his first long pull of the beer, looking like he needed it badly.

"That kind of day? John's had actually been a bit boring- a never-ending series of sore throats, bad coughs, fevers- too many patients just didn't understand that the best cure for a cold or the flu was rest, paracetemol and tissues. He simply refused to be one of those GPs who dispensed antibiotics just to appease people's idea that it made a difference, and justified them taking time off for work. So far, he had avoided catching it himself. But Greg looked very weary and worn.

The DI nodded and took a second pull at the beer after muttering, "With bells on."

John gave him a sympathetic smile and lifted his own glass.

When Greg finished swallowing, he asked, "Do you know what's going on between Sherlock and his brother?"

"Not a clue. Watched an almighty bust up in Baker Street three days ago, but not enough words were exchanged for me to make out why. And Sherlock is in 'non-verbal mode' at the moment- in fact, ever since the disagreement. Why do you ask?"

"Because I got hauled up to the Assistant Chief Commissioner of Detectives today to be told that Sherlock was now 'off limits' when it came to police case work. He just said that orders had come from the "authorities that cannot be named" that until further notice Sherlock Holmes was _persona non grata_."

John grimaced. "I suppose that's to be expected when you piss off a minor official of the British Government. He has the power to do that." The doctor downed another swallow of beer before continuing. "Something else you should know. When the two of them had their argument, Mycroft hit him. Hard, the slap left a mark that lasted a couple of hours."

Lestrade looked startled. "That's never happened before. Mycroft is too much in control of things to lose it like that." His tone of voice told John how seriously worried Greg was, when he continued "This isn't the usual hassle. I've seen those two dog-fight for decades. But, not like this. Usually, it's a case of Sherlock doing something stupid- breaking the rules, or falling off the wagon and back into old habits. Then Mycroft pulls the big brother routine. Sherlock snaps and snarls, but generally it sorts itself out." He seemed to hesitate a moment. "Well. Most of the time."

"What?" John was curious, and more than a little worried.

Greg stared at the beads of condensation forming on the outside of his glass. "Bloody pub- serves the beer too cold."

"Greg…" John needed to know.

The silver haired man frowned. "Twice before, when he's been forced into Rehab, a couple of months after he got out, he overdosed." The DI closed his eyes, as if that could stop the memory of him finding Sherlock on the roof of the Peabody Buildings in south London*.

John wasn't shocked. He knew about the suicide attempts. He'd learned about those when Sherlock was being treated for his injuries after a run-in with a Russian **. It still distressed him to think of it. _Why does he care so little of his life that he would do that? _

The DI was now giving John a searching look. "Is he using again, John?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"He's very good at hiding it; don't assume he'd behave the way most junkies would. I've seen him function as if perfectly sober on a dose of cocaine that would have someone else bouncing off the walls."

John grimaced. "I'm a doctor. It's hard to hide pupil dilation. And, according to Sherlock, cocaine makes him behave 'normally', whatever that is supposed to mean. He isn't behaving normally. For the past week or ten days, he's been tense, on edge, even anxious. Even when he's lying on the sofa pretending to be thinking. I've lived and worked with him long enough to know the difference between him actually working on a case and doing something else. This is something else."

The DI was nearly at the bottom of his pint glass. "We need to keep an eye on him. When he learns that police case work is off limits, then he's not going to be happy. I hope to God that your website produces some private client work. I know what happens when the work dries up. You've never really seen it; I have. If he isn't using yet, then it is only a matter of time." He finished the last bit in the glass. "The way I figure, Mycroft is actually pushing him to the brink, in order to watch him fall over it. That way, he can take whatever action he wants to take against Sherlock, even if that means locking him up."

John thought about it. Long and hard. Given previous occasions when Mycroft had done just that, it seemed plausible. And he knew that Sherlock was pretty paranoid about it, based on past experiences**. The doctor had hoped that those days were past. But today there seemed very little evidence to support that aspiration.

"Then we will just have to make sure that whatever Mycroft is trying to do, Sherlock is able to get through it."

Greg nodded. "It's not going to be easy. There will be danger days as well as danger nights. It all depends on whether he wants to really resist this time when his brother tries to push all the right buttons. He's never managed it before."

Almost in unison, the two men returned to their beers to take a long, reflective swallow.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Read my stories _Got My Eye on You*_ and _Sidelined**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Fallen Angel Chapter Ten**

* * *

**Counter-measures Part One**

* * *

It had been three weeks since a case of any sort. Three weeks of John watching Sherlock slowly unravel. Three weeks since Lestrade had explained, apologetically, that Sherlock was 'off limits' for a while, due to Mycroft's interference. "Sorry. No cases, not even cold ones." Sherlock and John had been called into his office. The doctor sat in the chair opposite the Detective Inspector, while Sherlock prowled.

"Since when has my brother been able to interfere at will in the Metropolitan Police case work?" He drew himself up to his full height and stared at Greg, in an imperious, almost royal manner.

Greg had just stared back at him. "Since forever, Sherlock. You are only working on cases at the Met because he agreed to it. Have you forgotten that little fact?"

"That was _ages_ ago. This is now. Someone should be able to stop him sticking that beak of his into someone else's business."

"Yeah, well until someone arrives on the scene with more clout behind closed doors than God, I don't stand a chance against your brother. No cases."

That earned him a glare. "Are you a mouse or a man, Lestrade? You can just slip me the details. No one will know. I don't even have to attend the crime scenes if you could get a good police photographer instead of your usual idiot." Sherlock made this sound like a huge concession on his part.

Greg just laughed, incredulously. "Since when has your brother _not_ known something he wants to know? He's watching my back like a hawk, ready to pounce on me for any sign that I am slipping something to you on the sly. Christ, he's probably got Donovan on his payroll to pass him any evidence that you're involved. What the hell did you two fight about anyway? Why not just patch it up? You've always been willing to compromise before it the case work was at risk."

Sherlock glared. "Because, this time it's a matter of principle. He's trying to freeze me out, in order to prove a point. I won't let him. There is too much at stake."

"Such as?" This was the first time John had said a word.

"None of your business." This was snapped as if it had been repeated on numerous occasions.

Greg looked from John to Sherlock and back again, a laugh halfway to escaping. "What, you out of sorts with John, too? Mycroft's really got you going if he can divide and rule. Don't rise to it, Sherlock. If you want to beat him at whatever game the two of you are playing, then you'll just have to tough it out. Don't let the bastard win."

oOo

"Don't."

Sherlock was pacing. John was trying to read the morning paper. After two weeks of watching Sherlock get increasingly tetchy, he had reduced his hours this week a little, so he was on mornings or afternoons only. He hadn't told Sherlock, but his friend was too busy fretting to really notice much of what was going on in other people's lives.

"He's just trying to wind you up. Don't rise to it." John's words of patience had absolutely no effect. All morning Sherlock had twitched, fidgeted, paced, picked at his violin. Yesterday had been the same, but he'd also started several experiments only to abandon them. He wasn't in his comatose, 'I can't be bothered to care' mode. This was the 'Triple A', as John had come to know it- anxious, agitated and annoyed. Sooner or later, the chemical consequences of inaction just ate a hole in his friend's sense of being, an acid of frustration that fizzed and burnt until it had to find an outlet. Any minute now, John knew that there would be some sort of explosion- and not from an experiment. This far gone, Sherlock wouldn't trust himself to start one , because he'd either abandon it half finished, or it would end in a bang of some sort. John had taken to examining the kitchen cupboards where Sherlock kept his equipment and chemicals to see what needed confiscating.

He kept worrying about what Greg had said- the DI was almost resigned to the idea that inaction would lead Sherlock back to drug use. He had the advantage of knowing Sherlock longer than John had. In the time that the doctor had been living with Sherlock, he'd only slipped twice, to his knowledge- when he had gone missing, living rough on the streets of London for five days trying to avoid Moriarty*, and once with a bottle of codeine leftover from a bout of pneumonia**.

_That I know about…_ Of course, he didn't have eyes on Sherlock all the time. Not that Mycroft did, either. Even with the best will in the world- which Sherlock did not have in the slightest measure- there were going to be times when the man was out of sight and able to do whatever he wanted. He needed to get Sherlock to acknowledge the danger of trying to deal with the problem on his own.

"Sherlock. Please sit down. I need to talk with you."

That earned him a frown on the face of the pacing detective, who did not bother to look at John. "I'm in the same room. I'm not deaf. Sitting down has nothing to do with talking." Sherlock carried on. His current pathway was around the kitchen table, to the window next to his music stand, between the coffee table and the sofa, then down the landing and in through the door into the kitchen.

John was reminded of the stereotypic behaviour of a caged feline in a zoo, endlessly pacing up and down the length of its enclosure. "You're wearing a path."

"Don't be absurd. Hardwood floors are not affected by being walked upon." This was muttered as Sherlock rounded the kitchen table and set off on another circuit.

"It's distracting."

"That's your problem, not mine. Go away if it annoys you."

"It's not annoying; it's_ worrying_."

"That makes no sense. Walking is not something to be worried about."

John sighed. "It's _why_ you are walking that is worrying."

Sherlock slowed his forward momentum for just long enough to look in John's direction. He wouldn't meet the doctor's eye directly, but was willing to use his peripheral vision to see if he could detect what was worrying John.

Then he said quietly, "You know why I am walking. It's a way of dealing with anxiety and agitation, both of which are the logical outcome of being…._idle_ for so long."

"Then let's figure something out that will keep you occupied."

"Without The Work, there is nothing else."

"You are _more_ than the work, Sherlock."

"No, I'm not. The other things I do are just a different form of idleness, things to do when I am not working. Distraction therapy, my mother used it to try to help me deal with…." here Sherlock seemed to run out of words for a moment, before resuming "…what I have to deal with when I am not working."

John smiled. "That's a rather circular argument, Sherlock. What do you have to deal with when you're not working?"

This seemed to annoy Sherlock. He made a vague gesture towards his head. "_This_- uncontrollable urge to do _something_, anything, to break the cycle going around and around in my head. I'm stuck, like, like…" he was struggling to find words. "…like a scratched CD that jumps about and never moves forward, forever stuck repeating the same sounds over and over again. Lalalalallalalalla…endlessly."

John decided at least his friend was talking, and that he might be encouraged to do more. "What's needed to break the logjam?"

That question made Sherlock stop in his tracks. His shoulders seemed to tighten a bit. "I need something that stimulates adrenaline release and inhibits dopamine re-absorption. If I'm lucky, a case."

"And if you're not?"

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. For a moment, John hoped that he might admit something revealing, giving the doctor an opening to discuss what Lestrade had foreshadowed. Once it was out in the open, John could talk about other, legal methods of dealing with what was going on.

The taller man fisted his hair in both hands and groaned. "If you are about to suggest some sort of pharmacological solution like an anti- anxiety drug, then you can stop right there. Bensodiazepines have a paradoxical effect on me, leading to even greater anxiety. And I won't touch an anti-depressant. SSRIs don't work on me."

John knew this already. Over the two years, he'd seen enough of Sherlock's medical records to know that something like diazepam was countraindicated. "What about buspirone hydrochloride? It's not an anti-depressant and it's not a benso either."

Sherlock released his hands from his hair, and shook his head. "Makes me sleepy, gives me headaches, and heightens my sensitivity to noise. My hearing is sensitive enough to nearly drive me mad normally; with Buspar it becomes impossible." He resumed pacing.

John decided he had to get Sherlock to face it. "So, it's cocaine, is it?"

Sherlock had come around the kitchen table and into the living room. As he paced by John's chair, he muttered a reply, "most of the time, yes. Sometimes, if I just want to shut the whole thing down, then diamorphine."

John was shocked. _Heroin? _ That was a surprise. Both Lestrade's comments and Sherlock's own medical records showed the abuse of cocaine, but had not divulged any other.

Sherlock was on the return lap, back from the window, past the coffee table. He muttered, "But usually I prefer benzoylmethylecgonine… C17H21NO4. Just another combination of chemicals, John, like the prescription drugs you just mentioned. The only difference is that those you mentioned are licensed for use, and the other isn't. It's a pointless, useless distinction that I have never understood or accepted. All I care about is what works. Cocaine stops the jamming, and allows me to focus." As he turned into the kitchen, the younger man continued. "I know what you are trying to do, and it is really none of your business. The more you try to push me into 'talking about it'…" here he made finger marks in the air, "…the more you make it difficult for me to be here in the flat. If I do leave, that will bring me closer to succumbing to the lure of a chemical solution which you have just deemed to be unacceptable."

"Not just me, Sherlock."

"Oh, who cares?! I don't care what other people think of me. Not my brother, not Lestrade, not even you. When I am this far gone, I just need to break out or _I WILL EXPLODE". _The last phrase was said through gritted teeth, as if the effort to stop shouting was almost overwhelming.


	11. Chapter 11

**Fallen Angel Chapter Eleven**

* * *

**Counter-measures Part Two**

* * *

"Why is your brother doing this to you?"

"Because he is a bastard. And that alone is the only thing that has kept me from rushing out and finding the first dealer I can. Yes, John, I am an addict. I know that. I am addicted to case work. He is depriving me of it, pushing me into withdrawal. He wants me to break, so he can prove a point. He always underestimates me. I just have to find a way to get past this."

John was both worried and bemused. _He's willing to admit addiction, but not to the drug, just to The Work._ Maybe there was more than a grain of truth in it.

"So, you want to beat your brother, in whatever game it is you won't tell me about. "

"It's not a game, but, yes, I do want to stop him from stopping me and that means I can't use drugs. That doesn't make the lack of case work any easier. He knows my weakness, and is willing to exploit it mercilessly. He's a bastard."

"Why not think of it as a case?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He sounded cross. Unresolved anxiety and agitation could lead to aggression, and the doctor was worried about it.

"Well, if a client came in here sat in the usual chair and told us this story, how would you solve it?"

Sherlock stopped pacing. Twin furrows in between his eyebrows deepened. "A case? What sort of case?"

John tilted his head and looked at his flatmate. "A man storms up the stairs, starts pacing about in front of us, saying that his brother is trying to stop him from doing something important. But the client won't tell you what that important thing is. Still, you are able to deduce what it is, even though you won't tell me. The brother is trying to push the client into a drug addiction relapse as a way of thwarting the client's plans, which the brother obviously doesn't approve of. So…what would you say to such a client?"

Sherlock gave John a surprised look. "You want me to …deduce the solution to give the client, when I am the client? That's…unusual."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's just off-the-wall enough to appeal to you." John gestured to the leather and chrome chair. "Sit down. Your client has just arrived." He pulled a chair away from the table and sat it in the centre of the room, facing the fireplace. He sat back down in his tweed covered chair, as Sherlock settled into his own leather and chrome seat, still with a slightly puzzled look on his face, as he looked suspiciously at the empty chair in the middle of the room.

"Okay…" Having gotten this far, John wasn't sure how to start at first. Then he realised it should be like any other case. "Right, you usually demand that they 'tell you the story, but don't be boring', so get on with it."

Tilting his head in puzzlement, Sherlock considered for a moment, and then was off. "I want to do something, and my brother is determined to stop me. Other people, who have to remain nameless, think it is a very good idea, and are willing to back my approach to ca… no, to solving a crime before it happens, even if this means putting my brother's nose out of joint. He responds like a bully, stopping me from doing police work, and interfering with the case requests that get posted to your website."

John interrupted. "How do you know that? I haven't seen any evidence of that!"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Don't break the role-play, John. That's what this is about, isn't it? Any idiot can see that only the most idiotic of case requests have been posted recently, asking for our help. I know your blog attracts a large percentage of boring and obvious cases, but, statistically speaking, by now at least several interesting ones should have appeared. I don't have to see my brother's finger prints to know that they are there."

"How could he do that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Website hacking for dummies… it's simple enough to set up a pseudo-comments inbox, hack the ISP and re-direct incoming messages, which is how you get your case requests from the public. He then judiciously deletes those he thinks are remotely interesting, just leaving the dross to be forwarded to the real inbox."

The consulting detective looked at the empty chair, as if trying to imagine a real client sitting there. "So, Mister Client, your brother is trying to extort behaviour from you by interfering with your right to practice your profession. That's illegal restraint of trade- have you thought about talking to a lawyer?"

John giggled. "Somehow I don't think any lawyer in the country would be willing to take a case up against Mycroft."

"Precisely. So, what alternatives are there?"

John looked at the chair. "Can the brother actually stop you from doing …whatever it is you or, rather the client has planned?"

"Nope". Sherlock gave a wolfish grin. "The client has out-manoeuvred Mycroft, made it impossible for him to take overt action; if he does, he's going to be in a _lot_ of trouble. More important, he's being kept out of the loop; doesn't have access to the full scheme of things, in fact, not even the crumbs off the table. That's _actually_ what's annoying him. He thinks he's the British Government, who should know everything. His palace-sized ego is being dented because he's found that he can't rule as the despotic tyrant that he wants to be."

_No wonder Mycroft is pissed off._ John wanted to know more, to find out why Mycroft wanted to stop Sherlock, and why Sherlock was so determined. The idea of Sherlock keeping secrets from him as well as Mycroft worried the doctor.

"So why not tell me? That's not the same as telling Mycroft."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock smirked. "You, John, are the most honest person I know. Your face tells me almost everything I need to know about what you are thinking. Do you think that Mycroft standing here in this room wouldn't be able to extract every bit of information he needs from you? Be realistic. If I want to keep him in the dark- and I have to for his own protection- then that means keeping you in the dark, for exactly the same reason."

John turned to look back at the empty chair and pursed his lips. "So, Mister Client, how long is this going to go on for? I mean, if you just keep going with …whatever it is you have planned, won't it just happen? Then the client's brother can't interfere anymore; it's a fait accompli."

Sherlock shook his head. "It could take months. The brother is waging a war of attrition. He's assuming that the client will crack before the plans come to fruition. He thinks the client is impulsive and unable to engage in strategic planning. And he thinks he can use the client's weaknesses to undermine his credibility with the other parties involved."

"Part_ies_? Just how many people are involved?"

"Lots, but no one apart from the client knows about everything. That's designed to protect _everyone_ else. What people don't know won't hurt them."

John was a bit confused. But he was learning something about what lay at the basis of the Holmes' brothers' dispute. Mycroft would be livid if Sherlock was keeping him side-lined on something big. He had a feeling of dread, an Irish accented hole in his sense of wellbeing. _It's probably got something to do with Moriarty. _His disquiet could not help but intrude into his next question. "Are you sure the client is up to all this on his own?"

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course, John. Not all clients are stupid. And this one isn't. That's Mycroft's mistake."

"So, what do you recommend the client do to stop his brother from undermining his credibility?"

There was a silence, then a deep breath. "Two steps. First, find an acceptable alternative to solving cases. Second, make sure that there is no way the client can succumb to his brother's pressure to…to relapse. So, find ways to limit temptation."

"Such as?"

Sherlock thought about it. "It's a question of supply and demand. Stop the suppliers from supplying."

John sniggered. "Oh, so that's easy, is it? Just stop dealers selling drugs. Surprised no one has thought of that before."

Sherlock wasn't deterred. He took a deep breath and then was off. "If the suppliers within a certain radius- say two miles- were to be incentivised to _not_ supply, then the person demanding it will have to go to further extremes, and that raises the likelihood of getting caught. That's the game changer, and the client will do everything possible to avoid being caught, including curtailing his demand. So, make it very, very hard to find anyone willing to sell to the client alternative forms of stimulation. Dealers are pretty greedy- you'd have to promise to pay double whatever the client was offering, in order to stop them from taking what's being offered as cash. So best to limit the amount of money the client can offer by restricting his cash availability. And to avoid getting ripped off, there would have to be a way of verifying what is claimed- maybe ask a dealer to take a photo of the client trying to buy and present it…to a third party before payment."

This had been rattled off in Sherlock's usual "faster than the speed of thought" deduction flow, and it took John a few moments to unravel it enough to get the gist of what was being said. Once he had, he was intrigued. Sherlock was proposing a method that would make it very hard for him to buy drugs in Central London. "So, restrict cash in the pocket and buy off the suppliers to blacklist this one buyer….our _client_. Yeah, that could work. It would have to be done by a third party- if the client was to avoid being seen talking to suppliers, that is. Maybe the Homeless Network could be roped into spreading the word to the dealers? We could even get the Met involved. Put it out to their informants, telling every supplier that no matter what the amount of money or incentive offered by the client, a sale would result in a conviction. So, use a carrot and a stick."

"Are you volunteering to be the third party in this, John? Would you be willing to pay off a dealer who came with such evidence?"

Thinking hard about it, John wondered if he could do this for his friend. "If …the _client_ was willing to uphold the arrangement. And to come to me before heading out to try to find a supplier? Yeah, I'm prepared to help. So, hand over your chip and pin card. I want to know _why_ though. What's so important that the client has to keep it from his brother?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nice try, John, but it won't work. This is a private exercise. No civilians allowed." But he did pick up his wallet from the mantelpiece and toss it to John, who extracted the bank card. John snorted. "You can't blame me for wanting to know, Sherlock". He checked the cash- twenty five pounds in notes. He tossed it back to his flatmate, who put it in his back pocket, and returned to his chair.

The doctor looked back at the empty chair. "Okay, so you've done your deduction thing and told the client how to make it harder to resort to buying drugs. Maybe the client also needs to cut back on the nicotine patches and actually try to give up smoking properly. Stimulating his neuro-receptors with nicotine will only exacerbate cravings for other things. So, it's a question of having the strength to go cold turkey on the whole lot."

Sherlock looked at John as if he had sprouted horns. He looked at the empty chair, and then back at John again. "The client says that's a big ask."

The doctor leaned forward. "But, if the client is really serious about this, then he has to do it. Shut off the chemical stimulation."

Sherlock sighed. "You don't let me smoke in the flat anyway."

"So, it's no great sacrifice, is it? We'll add cigarettes to the local dealer ban. The Homeless Network can inform the newsagents, the supermarkets, the pubs that the same rules apply. No sales."

"Hmmm." Sherlock sounded a little unconvinced.

But John wasn't prepared to let it go. "What about the flat? Is it clean? I mean, the whole thing fails if the client can ...indulge without being seen or having to go out and buy either drugs or cigarettes. I will remove whatever I can find in the way of your cigarette stashes here in the flat - and you'll tell me where they all are. The same with…other stimulants."

Cigs were one thing, drugs another. He knew that he was pushing Sherlock's limits. Lestrade's "fake drugs bust" on the very first night at the flat had never really been dealt with between the two men. At first, John had taken something of a laissez faire approach. Only once he got to know his flatmate, work with him, and resume practicing medicine, the issue had returned to niggle him fairly regularly. But, he'd not really known how to broach the subject, and there seemed to be no need, until now.

Sherlock was now staring over John's shoulder into the kitchen. For once, John could see conflict on his friend's face. Then a shake of the head, a tentative negative. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me. If there was a client in that chair, you wouldn't let him off so easily."

"It's a kind of…no, that's not the right word, but I don't know what is." He had begun to rub the thumb against the index finger of his left hand rather vigorously.

"Try." John was patience personified.

"Not a safety net- that's too banal. Think of it as more a continuous test. Like a smoke alarm. It's reassuring to know that it's there, in case you ever need it, but when you don't, then…that's okay. One more day and night that you didn't. It needs to be there as a constant reminder."

"But that doesn't get around the problem. What would?"

"A cut-out of some sort, an extra step, which would make it obvious to the third party, who could decide whether to intervene or not."

John considered it. "If you think I'd ever let you use drugs in the flat, then you will have to re-think what you know about me."

"That is rather the whole point, isn't it?" Sherlock got up and muttered, "Stay there. I'll be back in a minute."

John heard him go down the hall and into his bedroom. He thought about what had just occurred, and realised that in a weird Sherlockian way, a corner had been turned in their relationship. Sherlock was willing to get John involved in stopping any downward slide into drug use. That must imply that he knew his own vulnerabilities. But, on the other hand, John knew that to make such a concession was only likely because Sherlock wanted something even more. _More than The Work? More than drugs?_ What could Sherlock want more than either of those two things? Whatever it was, Sherlock was adamant that John would not be involved or aware of what it was. That was frustrating, and introduced a whole new degree of worry into the doctor's mind.

He heard Sherlock returning, but did not turn around to watch him come through the kitchen. The tall man came up alongside John's chair and gently placed some things down next to the mug of tea on the small round table. The doctor glanced over and saw that alongside an unopened pack of cigarettes there was a long thin wooden box, inlayed with silver filigree, in a vaguely Islamic design.

"Open it." Sherlock had not sat down, but went over to stand by the window looking out onto Baker Street.

John opened the metal clasp and pulled open the rounded top on its silver hinges. Inside, nestled within a moulding lined with purple velvet, was a slender glass and brass hypodermic syringe, and three needles, each within its own thin glass tube, also sunk into the velvet. There was a silver spoon with a very short handle and a piece of purple velvet cord, looped with a slider, and a wooden twist to tighten the tourniquet.

John blew out a breath, and then gave a shaky laugh. "Jeez, Sherlock; leave it to you to have the poshest looking kit I've ever seen. I mean…."

Sherlock interrupted. "Were you expecting some dirty needle on a used plastic syringe? I stopped taking that kind of risk after I was eighteen. Most junkies you have run across aren't using for the reasons I do, John. For me, the ritual is at least half of the experience. Dopamine re-uptake slows as soon as I put eyes on that box. Why not make it as pleasant an experience as possible? With that rig, I know it's clean and I can control the effects. So, take it. Put it somewhere safe where I won't find it. That means somewhere not in the flat, by the way, because I will deduce anywhere you might think of here. Do not, under any circumstances, dispose of it. Even if I were never to use again, I have to still know it exists."

John was still looking at the kit in the box, and trying to get his mind around what it meant, when one of the words Sherlock had just said penetrated. "…_eighteen_? Just when did you start using drugs?"

"Sixteen."

Before John could ask the inevitable question, Sherlock interrupted. "And that is all I intend saying on the subject, John. This is the last time I am prepared to speak of this. And I am only doing so now, because I know what Mycroft is trying to do, and I am going to do my best to stop him from succeeding. So, if it's alright with you, I'd rather focus on the other aspect of this…counter-measures strategy."

John shut the box and tried to shove the image of Sherlock using its contents into a deep recess somewhere in the back of his mind. "What's that then?"

Sherlock walked away from the window, and threw himself prone onto the couch, assuming his "I-am-thinking-deeply" pose. Silence fell in the room. John tried again. "Sherlock you said there were two parts to your strategy. One was to resist temptations, the other was to find something better than case work or drugs to keep you occupied. What is that?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just shut his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Fallen Angel Chapter Twelve**

* * *

**Counter-measures Part Three**

* * *

What John didn't know couldn't hurt him. That was how Sherlock rationalised it. No one, apart from him, knew all the pieces. He knew it would be harder for him, not having John to talk to, but it was safer that way. Elizabeth Ffoukes was the only one he had told about his being the Viking. And she would keep that away from everyone, lest the idea of collaborating with a known criminal be used against her or MI6's reputation. Yet, as he closed his eyes and opened the door into his Mind Palace, he realised that once again John's naïve questions had set off a new line of thought, one that Sherlock had not considered before. The doctor had said, "…think of it as a case."

Not exactly a case that needed to be solved, more a case that needed to be built. Instead of trying to solve the problem of Moriarty, of trying to plan what happened next, how to react to what he anticipated about the Irishman's behaviour, he needed to put himself in the centre- and he needed to accelerate the timetable. _Stop reacting to someone else's crimes. Start planning some of your own._

It was good advice. John would never know how much he had helped, because Sherlock would never be able to tell him. John's moral compass would…have difficulties accommodating Sherlock's sliding scale of ethics. If the ends were justified, the means were irrelevant. If it took crimes of a lesser order to capture someone able to commit just about any crime anywhere without fear of being caught, then that was…acceptable in Sherlock's mind. He thought of it as 'pump priming,' remembering the lessons that the head gardener had taught him about how to get a petrol water pump going.

"Why do you need to fill it with water, before it can suck up water?" His twelve year old self was fascinated with the physics of water pressure.

The elderly man smiled. "Because there are times when you have to give it what it wants, so it will want more."

_Just another kind of addiction_. Sherlock needed to devote as much attention to planning the crimes of Lars Sigursson as he would to solving a case. It was not a role he was used to, but it was a role that had an amount of perverse attraction to it. Like swapping from his drug of choice to something new, a little experimentation was warranted. He needed to develop the Norwegian's reputation more, push him into the limelight a little, attract attention from other people in the Irishman's network. And he was done waiting. Mycroft would win if he could prolong the whole process until Sherlock's patience cracked.

He had reason to be pleased with the first phase- making Moriarty appear vulnerable had already happened as planned. Sigursson was busy making sure that the network knew about the desert sojourn of their leader, and that the UK was behind it. He enjoyed planting little seeds of doubt in their minds about just how the British intelligence services had got away with it- the fabled contingency plans had not worked- crime after crime was unpicked, thwarted as it took place, with the perpetrators hauled off to jail. He had to do it oh so very carefully. It had to appear the earnest wishes of a man who wanted Moriarty to succeed. So, lessons in 'damning with faint praise' were applied. Whatever Moriarty might argue about his 'victory', just a few words in a few ears could undermine that.

He found himself channelling his brother's approach to such exercises. As much as he wanted to keep Mycroft out of things, it was that particular voice that he most often found in his Mind Palace when thinking about the Moriarty campaign. The 2.0 version of the Mind Palace* was just _so_ better designed for this sort of work. No longer confined to linear programmed relationships, he could access any part of the multiple corelet components, sifting through all the scenarios to spot the ideal moment to introduce yet another element of complexity. _Wheels within wheels._ No wonder he'd abandoned the crude hard disk filing system of his old Mind Palace. No longer confined to random access memory, his new access code had voices, attached to physical bodies. Like avatars, his search methods were specialists. Molly was for anything pathological; his brother's stentorian tones and 'oh-so-superior' posture were used to access anything strategic, political or logical. Voice, gesture, even clothing of the avatar- played a part in cataloguing and then recovering data when he needed it. Anderson's nasal voice and weedy physique played a part, when something forensic was needed. Sherlock reserved John and Lestrade's avatars for…other issues. _Checks and balances_. Sometimes Sherlock recognised his need for such brakes on his usual full-tilt behaviour.

His John avatar was now sitting in the tweed chair, looking at the empty client's seat. "What would you advise him to do, Sherlock?" The answer had come to him in a flash, but he'd kept it to himself. _No amount of my arguing with Mycroft will change anything; but if I can convince Elizabeth that his meddling is jeopardising the whole mission, then she might be able to get around him. _He was learning the art of coalition building. For someone who preferred working on his own or with John, Sherlock now needed to manipulate others to get his problems solved. He doubted Elizabeth Ffoukes could actually thwart Mycroft's orders to the Met, but she might be a good source for cases of her own. _Just applying some of your own tactics against you, brother mine. _

While he lay silent and somnolent on the sofa, his Mind Palace was resonating with the sound of contending voices, considering what was best to do next. John's avatar kept arguing with him. "Is this really necessary? Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

_Because I can't. Because I mustn't involve you. It is too risky. You need to survive this. That's the whole point. I'm expendable, you're not. I've known that since the moment he wrapped you in semtex. There is no alternative, John, if you are to live through this._

But, it was times like these when John's contribution was so useful that Sherlock found it hard. His ability to provoke the best, the unexpected, out of Sherlock was something that he had come to rely on. He knew that he was better for having John there. That fact annoyed him almost as much as it surprised him.

_Sentiment_. He had to put more distance between them. John would be puzzled, as he had been today. Giving him something regarding drugs was important- keep him thinking that he was performing a useful role, whilst all the while putting more and more distance between them. Why that should cause him distress was something…odd. Sherlock shifted on the sofa. He had to stay focused. Because he couldn't talk to the real John, he was going to have to rely on the one in his head more.

The whole process passed the time, helped him to miss the case work a little less. The adrenaline rush of plotting against Moriarty kept his dopamine levels up for a while, and pushed off the allure of other temptations.

oOo

Later that afternoon, John left for his shift at the clinic. As soon as the front door was closed, Sherlock was in motion. He got up from the sofa and padded into his bedroom, changing out of the usual button-down shirt and smart trousers, and into a non-descript pair of dark jeans and a navy hoodie. Undercover work needed some anonymity, if he was to avoid being picked up by Mycroft's CCTV surveillance. He worked some hair gel into the dark curls, and pulled his hair straight back from his forehead. A baseball cap and a pair of tinted glasses finished the disguise. He went into the hall landing, and stopped at the third step up towards John's bedroom- the squeaky one. A careful tap at one end of the overhang on the right hand side and the riser shifted a tiny bit, allowing Sherlock to slip the bent hanger into the space, twist until the metal hook was against the wood and pull. With a squeak, the board shifted out, allowing him to reach his fingers in and extract a small package.

He wondered what John would make of it. The hiding place was not a drugs stash, but rather a plastic wrapped burn phone. Prepaid, used only twice, it came on as he woke it up. _A different kind of fix, John- far more potent than cocaine_. He recalled last text sent, and typed in a new message.

**14.12pm urgent meet 3pm Carluccio Waterloo LS**

He waited for the reply. Three minutes later it came.

**14.15pm can make 4.15pm same place**

He smirked. _Busy lady._ Still, not everyone had the DG of MI6 at their beck and call. He was glad that Lars Sigursson did.

Before the appointed hour, he made his way out of the flat, using his latest"get out of Baker Street without Mycroft knowing" route. He altered it regularly, just in case. He decided against the technique of going out through Mrs Hudson's basement into the alleyway between 221 and Mrs. Turner's bins. This time it was onto the roof, which he swept regularly for cameras and bugs. To be doubly sure, he moved six properties along at roof top level before dropping down and over a back wooden fence into an alleyway behind the drycleaners on the corner. Within seconds, he was walking alongside another young man on the pavement, just close enough for CCTV technicians to mistake them as a pair, yet far enough away not to provoke the casually dressed tourist into realising he was even there.

He was lucky that Mycroft was such a slothful creature. None of his men had anywhere near the capacity of the Holmes brothers to predict such a journey, nor to spot it when it occurred on camera. Sherlock could hide in plain sight, his encyclopaedic knowledge of CCTV allowed him to duck his head at just the right moments to escape facial recognition software. If his brother could have been bothered to view the recordings himself, Sherlock knew that Mycroft would be able to detect his presence just from his body language and the way he moved. His brother knew him too well. For years, Mycroft had honed his surveillance skills in watching his brother. _Thank God you're too important for all that now._

So, a half hour before the appointed hour, Sherlock was already ensconced on a bar stool at the counter between the deli and the restaurant of Carluccio's, on the balcony level of Waterloo station. He indulged himself by ordering a plate of _Pasta alla Puttanesca_, whole wheat penne in a rich sauce of tomato, black olive and anchovy, and a bottle of Italian water; "senza gaz, per favour" he specified in a perfect Tuscan accent. He enjoyed eavesdropping on the banter between the Italian waiter- a native of Naples by his accent- as he tried to chat up another diner, a dark haired brunette from Milan.

At precisely 4.15, the seat to his left was occupied by a late middle-aged woman with the raven black hair of her youth now salted with a dash of white. In faultless, but textbook unaccented Italian, she ordered an espresso for herself and for him.

"Good afternoon, Elizabeth." He now wore the guise of his Norwegian accented English, the faint lisp loitering in the background.

"Mister Sigursson. How can I be of assistance?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance who is not obeying the rules. He's attempting to choke off all police work and interfering in private client cases, too- enough to alter the pattern so that other eyes will soon be aware if they are not already so. This has to be stopped, for the good of the mission. The target needs to see a consulting detective functioning at full capacity. In fact, for the benefit of the plan, you need to personally source a few high profile cases- the sort that will attract the target's attention. We want a bit of provocation now. So, find me a big one within the next week to ten days, and then a couple more for each week thereafter. I need high profile, press publicity. It's important."

Their coffees arrived. While she sipped at hers, he did the Italian thing- added two packets of sugar, stirred vigorously, and then took it all back in a single gulp of scalding sweet black liquid, followed by a chaser of half a glass of cold water.

She was using the mirror on the far wall behind the coffee machinery to watch the traffic on the balcony outside the restaurant. "You should know that our mutual friend was rattled by having to conduct that interrogation. He's hiding it well, but I can tell. Didn't like it one little bit."

"I can imagine. He is sloth personified. Getting off his fat bum and actually doing some _real_ work must have been annoying." Sherlock did nothing to hide his amusement at his brother's discomfort.

"Why do you two get along so badly?" Elizabeth sipped slowly at her espresso. "I mean, if the two of you ever _did_ manage to get together on something, you'd be pretty unbeatable."

"Because he never will _get together_. Something about him says 'no' every time the idea is suggested. He is congenitally incapable of not being in control."

"As much as you are congenitally incapable of being controlled?"

"Careful what you wish for, Elizabeth. You cannot get involved, or seek to control- that would involve culpability for what is going to happen. That's not how this is going to work. You have to have deniability."

She sighed. "I know. But I can't help but be curious. Our surveillance tracked the target's departure from the Sahara to…"

He cut her off. "Don't bother. My sources inside the network are far superior to yours. I know exactly where he is and what he is plotting next. We have no more than a month before he starts a campaign of 'in your face' high profile crimes designed to rub British noses up the wrong way. Before then, you need to supply me with at least three cases that will attract a lot of publicity- ideally, three cases that have the stink of an Irishman's involvement in them. Think of it as a gauntlet to be thrown."

She was looking at him now from the side. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the look of concern on her face. "You're provoking a fire-breathing dragon; please be careful. Don't get burned."

He smirked. "Sentiment, Elizabeth? You can't afford it. Just remember, I'm not doing this for you. Queen and country is not my motivation. "

She tipped the last dregs of the espresso in and sighed. "You'll get your cases, Give me ten days." She put a tenner down on the counter and walked out.

* * *

**Author's Note**: *For the story of Sherlock's "new" version of the Mind Palace, see my earlier story _DeFrag_


	13. Chapter 13

**Fallen Angel Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

**Counter-measures Part Four**

* * *

Before things got better, they got worse. Elizabeth needed ten days. Ten more days of _nothing_. There was only so much Mind Palace work that Sherlock could do, while waiting for Elizabeth to deliver. As no cases came forward from the Met, he had to accept that her ability to override his brother was limited. And the cases on John's blog went from the ridiculous to the absurd- lost dogs and obvious marital infidelities filled the inbox, taunting him with his predicament.

To stay sane, Sherlock was reduced to working old historical cases. For a whole day he researched the background to the mysterious death of Captain 'Black Peter' Carey in 1895. The 'Case of the Woodsman's Lee', as it was called back then, had been notorious. Sherlock was convinced that the crime was in fact a serious miscarriage of justice.

John was bemused at the development. _At least he's talking again. _Over his supper of fish and chips (politely declined by his flatmate), he couldn't resist asking the obvious question. "I've heard of cold cases, Sherlock, but this has to be from the deep freeze. Why the sudden interest in ancient history?"

Sherlock glowered. "Necessity is the mother of invention, John. If I am barred by a stupid prat in a three piece suit from handling current cases, there are plenty of cases in the past that are worthy of study. In many respects, it just hones my observational skills. The forensic evidence is primitive and the crime scenes cannot be visited. No one can be interviewed. You might think it a hopeless exercise, but in fact cases like these just take more thoughtful analysis and deduction. Even the tiniest clue can be crucial. Think of it as a form of mental gymnastics."

John looked sceptical, "or a lost cause?"

That earned him a glower from Sherlock. He stole a chip from John's plate and popped it into his mouth. "The alternatives are worse, so I expect you to be a bit more supportive of the idea."

"Want some of your own?" John offered him some of the fish, as well. The three As of agitation, anxiety and annoyance meant his flatmate's usual abstemious nature was now positively ascetic.

Sherlock shook his head, but stole another chip. John decided that playing along was the best course. Sherlock had been looking increasingly wild eyed and twitchy- the nicotine withdrawal must be bothering him. "So, what happened to this mariner?"

"He was found in his hut in the woods, with a harpoon stabbed right through him. He was pinned to the wall..." Sherlock pointed to the glass case on the mantelpiece, where half a dozen exotic winged insects were pinned to the white card background. "…like one of those moths. It was his own harpoon- a huge thing used for whaling, one of three he had brought with him from his ship, _The Sea Unicorn_. The killer was presumed to have taken it down from the wall of the hut where it had hung ever since Captain Carey gave up his seafaring days. Black Peter was a big man, a notorious drunkard and a bully. Few mourned his passing, but the papers described the crime scene with great glee."

"Why wasn't it solved back then?" The case sounded bloody enough to appeal to the sensational Victorian press; he was surprised not to have heard more about it.

"It _was_, or so they assumed. The police arrested someone- John Neligan, the son of a failed banker, because stolen securities were involved in the case. The evidence was circumstantial at best- a tobacco pouch with a set of initials, a blood-stained ledger, but motive was proven, so the jury convicted him and Neligan was hanged*. Shame on his defence lawyer- even the most incompetent should have been able to get him off."

"Why?" John was surprised at the vehemence of Sherlock's assessment. "You've managed to figure out who really did it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I know that Neligan didn't do it, and I have an appointment tomorrow morning to identify just who did from my list of suspects."

John tried to understand how that would be possible. He sniggered, "What, a line-up of skeletons? How on earth can you deduce something about people who've been dead for over a century?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "I'm borrowing a whaling harpoon and have a date with a pig carcass at Smithfield, early tomorrow morning." That earned him an equally odd look from John in return.

When John got up the next morning Sherlock was gone. The doctor was on an afternoon and early evening shift at the clinic, so he was happy to read the paper and enjoy a leisurely start in some peace and quiet. By telling him in advance where he was going, Sherlock was abiding by the rules of the new 'arrangement.' Smithfield was inside the "temptation exclusion zone" where John and the Homeless network had put in place the necessary restraint of suppliers. A photo of Sherlock had been shown to the various tempters and the message made clear. So far, no one had arrived at the flat to claim he'd tried to buy anything. _Early days yet._ John hoped this trip on his own would prove to be a good enough diversion.

oOo

Sherlock collected the harpoon from the Victoria & Albert Museum at 5.30 am. Four hours before the museum opened and before anyone else was at work to notice, a man who owed him a favour met him at the back door and handed it over. The short balding man in a V&A security uniform looked a little furtively around the pre-dawn gloom, as if worried about being seen.

"You won't break it, will you? I need to return it to the storage room undamaged, or I'll get in trouble."

Sherlock looked at the weapon- a stout pole of oak more than three inches in diameter and over a meter and a half long. Roped along its length and with a meter long metal attachment lashed to the pole and barbed at the tip, it looked more than capable of going into a solid wooden wall; the harpoon was an impressive piece of deadly weapon.

He smirked. "I don't think it's in danger of breaking, Mister Samuels. I'm more interested in the kind of mayhem it can inflict."

"Well, just return it after midnight tonight in working order. Whatever you do to it, clean it up. Not that anyone other than a curator is going to notice. They don't put these beauties on display."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why ever not? I would have thought a harpoon would attract a lot of attention."

Samuels snorted. "Wouldn't do to frighten the little kiddies, wouldn't it? These days, whales are our friends, and it's politically incorrect to remind anyone that they were once hunted to the edge of extinction. So, they keep these locked away."

Sherlock took possession. "I will treat the harpoon with the respect it is due, and hand it back to you here after midnight." He tucked the weapon under his arm and headed off down Exhibition Road, looking for a cab to take him to Smithfield Market.

It wasn't easy getting a taxi, especially at this hour of the morning. Several started to pull over to the kerb where he was signalling, only to drive off after seeing the harpoon. Eventually, one stopped long enough to ask, "What the flipping heck is that for, Ahab?"

Sherlock looked puzzled at the comment, but decided to improvise. "It's a theatre prop. And I need to get it to Smithfield. It will have to go out the window- too long to fit in the back."

The cabbie laughed. "Well, I'm game if you are- but just point it up to the sky or we'll end up skewering some poor cycle courier who fancies overtaking me."

Off they went eastwards on the Cromwell Road, around Hyde park Corner and then up the Mall to the Strand and Fleet Street. As the cab went up Giltspur Street past St Bartholomew's hospital, Sherlock smirked. It had always amused him that the pathology department was less than 400 meters from the largest London meat trade market, with literally dozens of wholesale butchers carving up animal cadavers to serve the hungry hordes of Londoners. He asked the cab to stop on West Smithfield, just before it went one way, and walked the remaining 200 feet, carrying the harpoon. Past East Poultry Avenue and then left into the Grand Avenue- a posh name for what was essentially the tradesman's entrance to the meatpacking industry. At this hour of the morning, it was in full swing, with trolleys of raw carcasses being moved by dozens of butchers, filling the backs of a steady stream of white vans, double-parked along the road. The gullies at the edge of the street ran red with blood and melted ice. Sherlock pushed apart the long plastic sheets that blocked off the trade stalls from the car traffic, and carried on dodging the various workers, some of whom stared at him and his extraordinary weapon.

At the fourth stall along, Sherlock went in and met Steve Daley, a big bluff Eastender, standing a bit nervously by the trade counter. Sherlock nodded as the man eyed the harpoon. He cut off any question by getting his own in first; "Got it ready?"

The burly man nodded, and took the consulting detective deeper into the meat processing area. Various butchers were at work carving up carcasses along a long metal table; other workers were packing the various cuts into boxes. Against the back wall were a row of meat locker doors. Daley took Sherlock past them into another smaller room, where chains were slung from metal tracks in the ceiling.

"I done what you asked for, Mister Holmes. The wood is up agin that wall and the pig is hangin' up three foot off t'ground. It's a…a bit weird to hang it up that way around; no butcher ever does that, put the head up. Won't bleed out properly that way."

"I know. That's the whole point, Daley. How much did it weigh?"

"96 kilos."

Sherlock surveyed the scene. The pig was hooked through the throat and chained with its snout pointing to the ceiling. There was less than fifteen inches between it and the wooden panel behind it. He approached the carcass and sniffed. "Mustn't be too cold." He took his hand and laid it on the carcass. It was just cooler than room temperature. "When was it killed?"

"I did it myself two hours ago – electric shock, like you asked. Not been blooded or nothing."

Sherlock smiled, "Good, it has to be fresh. I need to understand _everything_."

Daley looked at the harpoon, more than a little confused. "What'cha gonna do with that, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do mind. It's for a case. More serious than the one I got you out of two years ago, so I'd appreciate some privacy now." He waited until the butcher left, and shut the wooden door behind him. Sherlock tested the weight of the carcass by giving it a push on the chain. It barely moved. He'd asked for one just shy of 100 kilos, because the historical records had described Black Peter as a great bear of a man, 'over fifteen stone of muscle'. He pulled out a metal tape measure and used it to find out the length of the carcass. Minus the legs and head, it came to 24 inches. _Close enough. _He knew that an average tall man's torso would be over 20 inches in length. He turned the carcass on its chain so that the pig's underbelly was facing forward.

Sherlock had read extensive newspaper coverage of the state of Captain Carey's body when it was found. _The room was a droning harmonium of blow flies and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house_ was how the local reporter described it. _A single blow with the harpoon had gone straight through his belly and pinned the man to the wooden wall behind him_.

That told him roughly where he needed to strike- not too high up the rib cage that the bone would present an impenetrable barrier. Slightly to the left, so it didn't hit the spine. He took another quick look at his phone and the image from the butcher's app on swine anatomy. He took out of his pocket a fat black magic marker and drew on the carcass's skin the approximate target area. Then he took off his Belstaff, folded it carefully and slipped it into the black plastic bag, sealing it carefully.

Sherlock picked up the harpoon, strode half a dozen paces to the far wall of the room, turned and charged.

* * *

**Author's Note**: * As Sherlock exists in the 21st century, rather than the Victorian era when Conan Doyle wrote the original "Black Peter" story, there was no one to save Neligan from the gallows. Forgive my updating of this...but it does explain the opening scenes of Hounds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fallen Angel Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part One**

* * *

"Well, that was tedious."

When John looked up from his chair where he was reading the newspaper, he was greeted by the sight of a blood-splattered consulting detective wielding a harpoon. Fortunately for his nerves, he knew that the blood was most likely to be from the swine that had been Sherlock's "date" at Smithfield meat market. And he had been warned about the harpoon. When the doctor turned on his phone after an early breakfast in a flat conspicuously empty of his flatmate, it had been to see a text: **8.17am London Underground + harpoon at rush hour = notamused. SH**

"You went on the Tube like that?!"

"None of the cabs would take me." This was uttered through gritted teeth, and then Sherlock was gone, down the hall, presumably to take a shower and change. John was both relieved that there were no apparent signs of drug use, and perturbed at the obviously bloody work that had served as a distraction. But, he breathed a sigh of relief that Sherlock had not been arrested by the Transport police and taken off for mental evaluation somewhere. It was a testament to the Tube's hard-core commuters that Sherlock must have simply been given space and ignored.

oOo

Less than twenty four hours later, John was sitting across from that same consulting detective, now on the Great Western train leaving Paddington Station at 10.16 am on its way to Plymouth. From there, the plan was to hire a car and drive to the western side of Dartmoor. Their new client, Henry Knight, had been and gone the day before, taking with him an assurance that the two of them would be arriving the next day. Sherlock had been happy enough to take the case in the end, despite his initial reluctance, but he would not explain his change of heart to John.

John had watched his friend's bizarre behaviour during the interview with increasing disquiet. Sherlock's normal rudeness and abrupt manner occasionally tipped over into eccentricity with clients, but the meeting with Henry Knight had taken it to new heights of peculiarity. From the insistence that the young man smoke, and then the intrusion into his physical space in order to inhale it himself, through to the obviously dismissive rejection of the man's trauma as a child, it was as if Sherlock was cramming every objectionable aspect of his sociopathic tendencies into a single exchange. It was a testament to Henry Knight's desperation that he was willing to tolerate such oddities, and to Sherlock's ability to use his deductive powers to impress a disbelieving client. _Showing off- it's what he does. _

For the rest of the day after the client left, Sherlock buried himself in writing up the Peter Carey case on his blog, and to drafting an article for The Journal of Homicide Studies, which was running a special issue on forensic archaeology. "One thing at a time, John; I have to put this one to bed before taking up Knight's case."

"So, who did it, if not the bloke who was hanged for it a hundred years ago?" John was about to get dressed to go to work.

"Patrick Cairns."

"Am I supposed to be any the wise for knowing that name?"

Sherlock huffed. "The idiot defending Neligan should have been wiser, that's for sure. There were at least three possible suspects who were more likely to have committed the deed, but he never bothered to even try to argue that there was reasonable doubt. It was a deplorable case of police ineptitude, too. They should have known that a man as short as you are, and slighter of build, could never have wielded the harpoon with sufficient force to drive it straight through him and into the wooden wall behind him. Even I had difficulties, and I am at least seven inches taller than Neligan. The crime could only have been done by someone over six foot. Add to that the fact that the harpoon is a difficult weapon to wield with any precision, and the police should have known that the murderer was a whaler, most probably one who had served with Carey. Ship records of the crew identified only one such candidate, and Patrick Cairns fit the bill perfectly, especially when he mysteriously retired from his sea life with a tidy sum that he claimed had come from an inheritance. The real murderer got away with it and let an innocent man go to the gallows."

"And you got all that from a bit of pig sticking and archive research?"

"Yes, John. Half a day's work. Almost not worth it, except for the pleasure of telling Neligan's descendants that their ancestor, of whom they have been ashamed for the past century, was in fact as much a victim of Carey's murderer as the sea captain himself."

As an alternative to smoking, taking drugs, shooting holes in the wall or generally shouting "_BORED!_" at the top of his lungs, solving an historical injustice had a lot of advantages. John went off happier to do his afternoon shift, and to tell them that he would not be available for a few days. maybe even a whole week.

The practice manager shrugged her shoulders. "Apart from sudden shift changes to accommodate your flatmate's demands, you're a locum who never takes any holiday, Doctor Watson; I can't really complain when you decide to do so now. Dartmoor is beautiful at this time of the year." She loaned him a guidebook. "Took a holiday to Widecombe-in-the-Moor last year, had a fabulous time with the kids there. Enjoy."

On his way home at 7.45pm, walking to the underground station he soon realised that there was a black car following him. He sighed. He had wondered how long it would take before Mycroft pulled a stunt like this. For a moment, he imagined what would happen if he just scarpered the last 300 meters to the underground station. Would one of the minions try a flying tackle? Or would the car just drive onto Baker Street and wait there, knowing that he would show up sooner or later? If John was less tired, he might have some fun winding up Mycroft.

But then he realised that this just might be an opportunity to find out more about what was going on between the two brothers. Given that Sherlock was being silent on the topic, perhaps Mycroft might reveal more. It was worth a try. John did not like being left out of the discussion- especially when it seemed to have taken such a toxic turn in terms of relations between the brothers. That made him stop his forward momentum and turn resolutely around.

Three quick strides later, he opened the back door and threw himself in, even before the car had come to a complete halt.

"Well, that was dramatic, Doctor Watson."

John was expecting a comment from Mycroft's dark haired PA, but this was uttered by the man himself.

"Mycroft. Well, if it isn't the devil himself, instead of one of his minions."

The elder Holmes's face betrayed no reaction to the flippant remark. "This seemed a more convenient method of talking. For obvious reasons, I would rather avoid another scene at Baker Street."

"I do have a phone, you know. A _phone_- I have told you about that remarkable communication device on numerous occasions."

That earned him a look of forensic scrutiny. "Non-verbal communication is just so much more revealing, don't you think?" There was an undercurrent of smugness that John found more than a little annoying.

"So, what do you want to talk about, Mycroft?"

"Is he using drugs again? I see you feel able to let him wander about London unsupervised at the crack of dawn this morning- rather _unwise_ in his current state of fragmentation, don't you think?"

John was torn. Should he react to the idea that Mycroft was proposing that John was some sort of 'watchdog' to be ensuring his brother's sobriety, or should he instead focus on the fact that, if anyone was to blame for Sherlock's current frame of mind, it was his brother? He opted for the latter.

"Is this an admission that you are not the omnipotent, all-seeing, all-knowing big brother? If you have to ask me, then you need to train your surveillance team better. Surely, they have told you he's clean. I also suspect that they will have told you about the arrangements that have been put into place to ensure that he doesn't succumb to temptation. Oh, before you think that was someone else's idea- don't. It was his." John looked out of the window at the passing traffic for a moment, before continuing. "On the other hand, that fact must be galling for you, as you seem determined to drive him to utter distraction, by interfering with case work. He doesn't need to self-sabotage; he's got you to do that for him." The doctor did nothing to remove the hostility from his words.

"You know _nothing_ of what is at stake here. My brother needs to be reminded of his limitations, before they have devastating consequences."

John turned to stare wide-eyed at Mycroft. "Then enlighten me. If you think that Sherlock is doing something that is too risky, then you have to tell me what is going on."

That earned him one of Mycroft's special little smiles. "So, he hasn't made you his _confidant_." The suited man looked almost gleeful at this revelation. "Well, far be it from me to interfere between you two. Alas, I won't be able to let you in on the details. All you need to know is that Sherlock risks destroying himself and everything that matters to him if you don't manage to talk him out of this crazy scheme of his."

John was reminded of the tiger he had once seen as a child in Bristol's zoo. The beast had sat in arrogant splendour, looking at the people looking at it, with distain and utter superiority. Mycroft's eyes had that same combination in them. John was forced to look away, out the window, trying to calculate how far they were from Baker Street, and whether there was a convenient tube station. He flexed the fingers of his left hand.

"You'd better let me out on the corner, Mycroft. I think we are done here."

That was met with a raised eyebrow, but the older man did tap a button by the side door- presumably an intercom to the driver. "You can stop at the next set of traffic lights, Johnson. It would appear that the doctor has decided to make his own way back to Baker Street."

As the black car pulled away, leaving John on the pavement, he fervently hoped that the elder Holmes was wrong about his younger brother. He really, really didn't like secrets being kept from him. _Just how the hell am I supposed to help Sherlock, when I don't know what I am protecting him from?_ Not for the first time, the doctor regretted being forced to play piggy in the middle between the two warring brothers. _Just hope I don't end up harpooned._


	15. Chapter 15

**Fallen Angel Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound ****Part Two**

* * *

John opened the borrowed guide book as the train stuttered its way out of Paddington Station. He'd never been southwest of Exeter- and there only on a night time Army exercise in Haldon Hill Forest. On the extreme western edge of Devon, across the Tamar River from Cornwall, Dartmoor was an unknown for him. He found himself wondering why Sherlock had been willing to take the case on, given his initial rejection of it. The doctor had not known Sherlock to take many cases that involved travel outside the familiar surroundings of London and the Home counties. Sherlock's overseas work tended to be short cases involving art, missing persons or the occasional robbery, if it was interesting enough- and most of those involved a major city. To get him out of his familiar territory into the countryside, the cases needed to be an 8 or 9 on the Sherlockian scale- interesting enough to overcome the inevitable discomfort caused by strange environments, unfamiliar people and unexpected social stresses. He recalled all too often the fact that he'd been the one sent out to investigate the death of the hiker in the field. Even after he'd said yes to this new case, Sherlock's first reaction was to send John to Devon, rather than go himself. John wondered if this case might push Sherlock too far at a time when he was already under considerable pressure. _I really don't know which is worse- no case at all, or one that hits all the wrong buttons?_

As their train rattled through Ealing and then on through Staines, John got stuck into the folklore section of the guide book. The taller man had insisted on first class tickets and then on taking the seat facing away from the direction of travel. Once ensconced across from John, Sherlock opened his laptop and plugged into the trains Wi-Fi, muttering that it was a "great improvement when trains joined the modern world." After that, he buried himself in internet research of some sort, ignoring John's occasional questions about what he was working on. While this was more or less what John expected of his colleague on a train, he could not help but notice that Sherlock's left leg was jiggling. When his hands were not busy typing on the laptop or swiping through pages on his phone, they seemed to have a life of their own- restlessly moving from massaging a thigh, to rubbing the thumb and index finger together or twiddling with a dark curl. Nicotine withdrawal and possible cravings for other substances were clearly at work. He decided a bit of distraction therapy might help.

"Sherlock, do you know much about Dartmoor?"

"Hmmm?...no, too boring."

"Well, Henry Knight's story about that monstrous hound has some historical precedents. It says here that Squire Cabell, 'a man with an evil reputation', terrorised the local neighbourhood and when he died in the late seventeenth century, a pack of black hounds ran howling across Dartmoor. His body was entombed in a building to stop him from riding out with his hounds."

Sherlock snorted in derision. "Somehow, I don't think they're still running three centuries later, John."

The doctor looked crossly at his travelling companion. "I didn't mean that, you berk. It's just that, subliminally, Henry could have picked up on the idea when he was a child at school. And here's another one. Henry mentioned Dewer's Hollow. Well, it turns out that there is also something called the Dewer's Stone." He read from the guidebook, "a large granite outcrop over a hundred meters high", before going on to read out loud that "local legend says that the devil terrorises the moor at night with a pack of something called the Wistmans Wood hounds, which chase travellers to their deaths off the top of the Dewerstone."

That earned him another, even louder, snort of derision from Sherlock. "That's just the sort of drivel that gets promoted by guidebooks like that one; all good for the tourist trade. The same sort of macbre nonsense as "ripper tours" in Limehouse or stories of ghosts and ghouls walking the alleyways of Covent Garden. Like that silly TV programme about the Hound- all just stories manufactured to attract the gullible."

As more passengers got onto the train at Reading, the consulting detective sighed and pulled out a pair of earbuds and plugged himself in, to drown out the sound of chatter and conversation. Whatever he was listening to kept his attention for a little while, but the jiggling and the fidgeting did not stop. At one point, Sherlock just ripped the earphones out and stood up, announcing crossly that he needed to go for a walk. He disappeared down the train carriage, with John's concerned eyes following him. The doctor felt awkward; Sherlock's comment to Mrs Hudson yesterday was still ringing in his ears- "I need something stronger than tea. Seven per cent stronger." Still, it was unlikely that Sherlock would find a dealer on the train, and smoking was banned in public transport. Making a fuss about it would only irritate Sherlock even more.

He returned a quarter of an hour later carrying two coffees.

"Ta- just what the doctor would have ordered, if you had bothered to ask….although I'm not sure if _you_ need a stimulant. Is yours decaffeinated?"

That earned him a glower. "You deprive me of nicotine, John. That is enough deprivation."

John sat back and enjoyed the view, as the scenery of southwest England rolled by. They crossed into the county of Devon soon after Taunton, and John read in the guidebook about the Black Down hills and the tourist sites of East Devon. Then the train stopped at Exeter St David's station. This one John knew- his training exercise involved a pick up here, with the convoy of army trucks then wending their way up the steep incline of Haldon Hill, past the race course and then off on tiny lanes through the forest. He remembered it as one of the first times in his life he'd been truly and utterly soaked to the skin for more than three days without a chance to dry off. He'd had a wonderful time. It had poured with rain, but not dampened his enthusiasm for practicing his medicine in the army.

As the train left Exeter, it took a different route, away from the hills, crossing the River Exe and then hugging the side of the estuary until breaking out to the sea at Dawlish. Remarkably, the train tracks ran right alongside the beach for almost a mile, before diving into a tunnel cut through dramatically red sandstone and moving inland. Sherlock did not even look up, keeping his eyes on the laptop or the mobile phone beside him. When the train started going in and out of tunnels cut through the hills, he started to mutter.

"What's wrong?"

The consulting detective sighed. "WiFi needs reasonable line of sight; phone signals get cut off in tunnels. This is getting to be a nuisance."

"Why not relax and look at the scenery for a while?"

"I'm not _on holiday_, John." The snapped reply betrayed scarcely controlled agitation.

"When was the last time you did go on holiday?"

"I can't remember. I must have deleted it as irrelevant. Most probably when I was a child and dragged somewhere against my will. Possibly France; my mother had relatives there on the south coast." He drank the last dregs of his black coffee in one gulp, and squashed the empty cup, rather savagely thrusting the crumpled remains into the litter bin between the seats across the aisle.

John tried to imagine the Holmes family on holiday. An image of Mycroft sitting on a blanket under a beach umbrella in a perfectly tailored sailor's suit complete with straw boater hat as a ten year old, while his mother tried to control a squirming toddler Sherlock…no, the idea was hard to contemplate.

"So, not one for the seaside, building sandcastles, paddling or swimming from the beach?"

"What do you know about me that makes you think I could possible _like _hot sun, blistered skin, scratchy sand, not to mention all the other 'holidaymakers'?" The taller man shuddered. "My idea of hell." He twitched and fidgeted for another few minutes, glowering at the unresponsive phone and laptop. Eventually, he gave up, and put the earbuds back in and switched to some music on his laptop, leaning back, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. The sigh he uttered was not one of contentment.

Eventually, the train rattled over a rail bridge suspended above the river Plym, alongside the A38 motorway. The view south over the estuary and to the sea was spectacular, and the houses of Plymouth lined the lumpy hills that formed the West Country's largest city. But if John was looking for quaint, olde England- he was disappointed. Looking up from where he was packing up his laptop, Sherlock smirked at the look on John's face. "Expecting something more picturesque? Don't bother. Most of Plymouth's old town was flattened by German bombers in the war. What's left is the hideous accretions of the 1960s, 70s and 80s urban concrete. It's a grey place."

The assessment was an accurate one as the train pulled into the 1960s concrete and pebble dashed station. _Ugly as sin_. John was more used to London's variety of regenerated cityscape- here it was rather relentless lines of two storied terraced houses marching up and down the hillsides, under a sky scudding with dark clouds. Most of the passengers on the train were disembarking here, and it took them some time to make their way out onto the station forecourt. There John realised it was beginning to rain.

"And Plymouth is officially the wettest city in England," Sherlock added. "In the rain shadow of Dartmoor, a quarter of a million inhabitants endure more rain here than any other city."

"You're just a mine of depressing information, Sherlock. Any idea where the car hire place…oh, there's a sign." John was looking at a small sign indicating that the Budget Car Hire office was just to the left of the station car park.

"Not there, John. Follow me." Sherlock just strode out of the station up Alma road. His long legs and swinging stride made it hard for John to keep up. _Quick march._

Across from a landscaped park, the doctor followed his friend into the large car park of the Hertz premises. "Why here?" John was curious.

"Because I have already reserved our transport, which the other company didn't offer." Sherlock told him to wait with the luggage and went into the office. He emerged moments later dangling a set of keys and then disappeared around the back. John wondered what sort of car he would turn up in, reminded of their conversation the night before.

"What do you mean, you don't drive? How is that possible, John?"

The doctor had looked a little uncomfortable. "I never learned. Never had a reason to. My dad had a car to get to and from his work, but my mum, sister and I went everywhere on buses. We lived in the city. I went to university in London- where a car is utterly pointless. I was a poor medical student, and then an even poorer army doctor. The army moves its people around; I don't need to drive." If this was said in a slightly defensive tone, it was because John had always felt a little embarrassed about it.

Sherlock smirked. "I learned when I was fourteen. On the estate; Frank Wallace* taught me. Fortunately, in my part of West Sussex other cars are few and far between, so learning there was not like learning to drive in London traffic. I've always liked to drive- it's a challenge handling the data flow without getting overwhelmed. Out in the countryside, it's less of a problem."

The way Sherlock described it made John realise that for someone on the Spectrum, driving would present its own unique challenges. He hoped that Sherlock's current, slightly frazzled, state would not be exacerbated by stimulus overload.

He heard the car coming around the corner of the rental office before he saw it. A large dark Landrover appeared, and pulled up alongside John. The window was rolled down and Sherlock gave him a stare.

"Well, get in. I'm not a chauffeur, so don't expect me to open doors for you. Can you read a map?"

That got him returning fire from the doctor. "Sherlock, I led troops on field exercises; of course I can read a map. Better than you can, I would expect."

As he stepped up into the high wheel base 4x4, John had a distinct sense of déjà vu. Lots of Landrovers in the army, perhaps too many in Afghanistan where they proved little defence against enemy IEDs, even when strengthened for combat.

"Why a Landrover, Sherlock, when you had a whole lot of other cars to choose from?" He pulled on the seatbelt, clicking it firmly in place and opening the map. At least with a car this size, opening the folded map would not get in the way of the driver.

Sherlock slipped the car into gear and pulled away. "I learned to drive in a Landrover. I don't have to think about it. And where we are going, off road four wheel drive work may be a distinct possibility. Actually…" here he gave one of his rather manic smiles, "…I hope we get an excuse. It adds a certain extra exhilaration to driving."

John wondered if now was a good time for Sherlock to be actively seeking extra stimulation; he seemed pretty wired all on his own. As they went out on the A386 Tavistock road, the afternoon traffic was not particularly heavy, and the doctor began to relax after some initial anxiety about Sherlock's driving. He handled the Landrover with consummate ease, and given the car's size, a lot of the other drivers tended to give it a wider berth. The town centre gave way to the comfortable suburbs of Derriford, and John found himself hoping more fervently than usual that the case would be a good one, able to keep Sherlock preoccupied and challenged for a reasonable length of time. He deserved it, after the dry patch he'd been made to endure by his brother.

In a surprisingly short time, the suburbs were left behind and the Landrover passed over a cattle grid onto open moorland. The signpost at the gate indicated that they were in Dartmoor National Park. Within a few hundred feet of the gate, the gorse and heather bushes started to appear, and amongst the scrubby low lying growth, John saw his first Dartmoor ponies.

"Maybe what Henry saw was just one of these ponies? In the dark, it could be mistaken for a large dog; I mean that one over there couldn't be more than three foot tall."

Sherlock did not take his eyes off the road. "What about the glowing red eyes, John? Knight was quite specific about his 'gigantic hound'. Even in the dark, an equine body shape is hard to mistake as a canine one. And paw prints are decidedly different from hoofprints."

That reminded John. "You haven't explained to me why you actually took this case. I mean, you spent a lot of time telling the poor man that he was delusional and boring, said no, and then suddenly changed your mind when he said the magic phrase , 'the footsteps of a gigantic hound.' What made you do that, if you think he is lying?"

"I don't think he is lying- or at least he thinks he's telling the truth about what he said he saw. There is something in that phrase… It's a very odd choice of words. It would have been more logical to say 'the paw prints' but he didn't; he said 'footprints'- something normally reserved for people. Why that word 'hound' is important, I'm not sure yet. But there is a link to Baskerville and what is going on at the installation. At the moment, it isn't clear. Once I get more data, then it should make sense."

"Are you saying that you have a _hunch_? Sherlock, I thought the science of deduction is all about logic and fact. Are you admitting to something as imprecise as _intuition_?" John was surprised. "Wow- is this just an excuse to get out of London because you're bored? Could this be a wild goose chase?"

Sherlock looked at both sides of the road. "Ponies, cattle, sheep- no geese are kept on the moor, John. These are all stock released onto the heathland and carefully controlled. Eartags and brands identify every animal. Not 'wild' at all. And no geese." He sounded a bit miffed at John's teasing.

John smirked. _Sense of humour failure._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Frank Wallace is the Parham Estate gamekeeper. His role in Sherlock's life is covered in several of my other stories- Musgrave Blaze, the Shooting Party, Defrag and one of the ExFiles and two of the Periodic Tales. He's one of my favourite OCs- and to put up with Sherlock on L Plates, he'd have to be patient!


	16. Chapter 16

**Fallen Angel Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Three**

* * *

John woke up with a start. Totally disorientated for a moment, he glanced around. _Where am I? _He was half sitting, half lying on a twin bed in a room he didn't recognise. Beside the bed, a small table lamp was on and shed some light on an unfamiliar scene. Then he saw the wooden beams across the ceiling, the framed paintings of Dartmoor hanging over the twin bed next to him.

It all came back in a rush, as he glanced at his alarm clock. **2.12am**. There was no sign of the other occupant who should have been there. John had fallen asleep with the light on, waiting for Sherlock to return.

For the umpteenth time that night, John had to deal with the anger that welled up at the thought of what had happened over the previous twelve hours. He closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose to try to get his emotions back under control.

_All too much to deal with._ The empty bed beside his was reproaching him.

The whole afternoon had passed in a blur as Sherlock's usual manic pace of case work exploded into a frenzy of action. They'd been driving on Dartmoor for less than an hour when they reached the signpost to Grimpen Village, but Sherlock had turned the Landrover in the opposite direction. He wanted to look at the lie of the land, understand where Baskerville was relative to the village, and get an idea where Dewer's Hollow was. Reading the map, John had directed him to a tor, a high point on the moor, where the granite rocks gave Sherlock the viewpoint he wanted. In a grim sort of coincidence, this turned out to be Dewer's Rock- where the Hounds of Wistman Woods were supposed to drive wayward travellers. In the bright sunlight, it had seemed harmless. In the distance, however, the minefield surrounding the research installation belied that casual assumption.

Henry Knight recommended they stay at the Cross Keys Inn: "The food is good, if a bit quirky. It's run by two Plymouth guys who got fed up with city life." With only seven bedrooms, a bar and a tiny restaurant, the inn was small and on such short notice they had to make do with sharing a twin bedded room. In a way, John was glad, because it would allow him to keep an eye on his friend, who showed no signs of relaxing. If anything, the agitation had become even worse. While John checked in and had a swift half pint of local real ale, Sherlock had prowled the confines of the public rooms, looking uneasy. John knew that apart from crime scenes, new places tended to make Sherlock uncomfortable. In the beamed cosy cottage that the Cross Keys had once been, the tall detective had to duck to get through the doorways, and seemed out of sorts.

John eventually found him outside, with someone else's half empty pint glass in front of him trying to chat up a local youth –one who was touting for walking tours on the moor, to see the mysterious 'hound'. Just the sort of tourist twaddle that Sherlock had derided, but John played along with his attempt to find out what, if any, evidence the lad had. Sherlock was in 'acting mode'. It was quite extraordinary to see the consulting detective willing and able to assume the behaviour of a perfectly normal person. John knew it was one of Sherlock's greatest skills- to be able to appear to be just the sort of person he needed to be in order to extract the maximum amount from a witness or suspect. For the sake of _The Work_, he was willing to do it. For those who didn't know the detective, he could be charm personified. It still surprised John every time Sherlock did it.

The cast of the paw print that the youth eventually revealed made John wonder. Could it have been faked? He took possession of a fifty pound note as his 'winnings' for the pretend bet. That made him wonder how Sherlock had managed to get it when the doctor had been keeping his bank card, to keep him away from temptations. But before he could broach the subject in private, Sherlock had bounded up the stairs, thrown his suitcase beside the twin bed nearest the window and announced that they had work to do. Before John could finish using the bathroom, Sherlock was gone. The doctor caught up with him in the car park, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, engine running.

As he got into the car again, Sherlock snapped. "I don't know why you bother to _buy_ beer, John. It goes through you so fast that you might as well just rent it on a short term lease."

The doctor's reply was equally acerbic. "Some of us like to eat and drink, Sherlock. You might try it some time. Might help keep your blood sugars at a level where you wouldn't act like a sarky twelve year old all the time."

The sniping should have given him pause for thought. With hindsight, he now realised that he had let Sherlock shrug the comment off. _I should have stopped him right there; made him rest. _

But instead, John allowed Sherlock to drag him off on a full-frontal assault on Baskerville, bluffing their way into the compound, using his brother's stolen ID. At no point did Sherlock explain what he intended doing; he just assumed that John would fall in. The risks of getting caught shocked John. Impersonating someone to get unauthorised access to a secret facility was a crime. Which is probably why Sherlock did not even ask. John kept wondering at what point they would be pulled aside, arrested or thrown into a cell. The adrenaline in his system increased dramatically with each passing moment as Sherlock kept the ruse going longer and longer.

After being introduced to a Doctor Stapleton, John realised that Sherlock was linking up a child's plea on JOhn's blog about her missing Bluebell with what was going on at the installation. Once out of earshot of the corporal escorting them on their tour, he whispered incredulously to Sherlock, "Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?"

_I should have called a halt then and there._ It was not in the least bit funny, but Sherlock was treating it as if it were one huge prank. Not for the first time since they'd arrived on Dartmoor, John wondered if being deprived of cases for so long had somehow pushed Sherlock over the edge of being able to determine what was sensible and what was outrageous. The exchange of texts with Mycroft seemed to amuse Sherlock enormously.

The process was enough to put John seriously on edge- he didn't like being taken for granted, or being put into the position of committing a crime. This was no casual lock pick or clandestine break in to an empty flat. Maybe it was the fact that it was a military base; whatever the cause, it made him angry that Sherlock just assumed John would go along with it, unquestioning. Forced to play along, the whole charade nearly broke down for good when the security system finally identified the misuse of Mycroft's ID, but fortunately they were saved by the unlikely intervention of Doctor Frankland, who lied on their behalf, protecting them. Frankland was able to figure out who Sherlock and John really were and the fact that they had been brought into the picture because of Henry Knight, luckily doing so without tipping off the base commander.

By the time they managed to walk back to the Landrover to escape from the installation, John's nerves were frayed. He watched Sherlock's nonchalance as he turned up his collar, and snapped, "Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?"

"Do what?"

"You ...being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."

For a moment, Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback by the tone of John's voice. "…I don't do that."

"Yeah, you do." John's retort was more weary and annoyed than affectionate.

Looking back on what happened next, John couldn't decide whether he was more angry at Sherlock, or at himself for not stopping the consulting detective. Perhaps he had been so relieved at getting out of Baskerville without getting caught that he didn't do enough to slow Sherlock down, get him to talk through his plans so the doctor could urge more caution.

Now five hours later, with the benefit of hindsight, he looked over at the untouched twin bed and wondered again when he should have intervened. The whole thing made him _angry._ With a grunt, he sat up on the edge of his twin bed and then got up, wandering to the ensuite bathroom to wash his face and try to get a hold on his temper.

Normally, Sherlock was like a guided missile on a case- all investigation and deduction skills on full throttle. But, even then, he had developed over the years a willingness to take John along with him during the journey, telling him what was happening, what he was about to do, or testing ideas out with the doctor. This case was different. Sherlock had told him virtually nothing, springing surprise after surprise on him. At no point did he seek John's advice.

As they made their escape from Baskerville, John had tried to get Sherlock to open up.

"So, the glow-in-the-dark rabbit is a genetic experiment that escaped. And if that lad at the pub is to be believed, it's not the first escape. Doctor Frankland clearly doesn't think much of his colleague Doctor Stapleton; maybe that's because she allowed it to escape?"

A noncommittal "hmmm" was the only response from Sherlock, who was concentrating on the road; as the sun was settling toward the horizon, the moor's livestock seemed to be on the move. Coming around a blind curve, he had to take a sudden evasive manoeuvre off the side of the tarmac to miss a group of three sheep who were lying down across the road.

As the Landrover bounced back onto the road surface, John blurted out, "Why are sheep so stupid?"

"They're not. Road surface retains heat, John. Think of it as the sheep's equivalent of an electric blanket."

"Must make night time driving on the moor a bit of an obstacle course." He looked over his shoulder at the sight of the three sheep again; they were totally oblivious to the near miss.

"That's why the speed limit in the park is only 40 miles per hour. Too much livestock gets hit at night."

John shook his head. "Maybe we'll get lucky and someone will hit this supposed hound."

The detour deflected him from putting Sherlock on the spot and asking him to be more up front about his plans. _The first missed opportunity._

When they reached the main road, Sherlock surprised him again by turning in the opposite direction from the signpost showing Grimpen Village was 1.5 miles to the right.

"Where to now?" John's tone conveyed his weariness and frustration. He was feeling tired, as the adrenaline faded. And hungry. Sherlock's focus on the case had meant they'd missed lunch, and John was looking forward to a shower and a pub dinner. Perhaps if he'd put his foot down then, the rest of the night would have passed off without drama.

Instead, Sherlock drove them straight to Henry Knight's house. A good two miles away from Grimpen Village, the large house was in open moorland. And once there, he proceeded to announce his intention to take Henry Knight back to Dewer's Hollow. "We take you back onto the moor, and see if anything attacks you."

John had been astonished. To do such a thing to a badly traumatised person was the height of cruelty- and downright dangerous to their client's mental health. But Sherlock was not deterred by Henry's nervous reluctance. John's own incredulous reaction to the "plan" was shrugged off with the flippant comment, "if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives."

If only.

If only he'd argued that it was madness to do this at night._ The second missed opportunity._ But, he hadn't done more than offer a token protest. So it was that John found himself out on the moor as darkness fell. Using a torch to light his way towards the woods where Dewer's hollow was, John brought up the rear. _The third missed opportunity._ If he'd not been at the back, he might not have been separated from the other two. His attention was distracted by the sight of a light across the moor, which went on and off in a most regular manner. He stopped to watch long enough to catch the meaning in Morse code- UMQRA- and then hurried after the other two. In the darkness, he'd missed where they left the main track and went down into Dewer's Hollow.

He'd heard the anguished canine howl ahead of him and started running. But, crucially, he wasn't there when Henry and Sherlock were down in the hollow. He only met the two men coming back, after the second howl. "Did you hear that?"

In the dark, Sherlock went past him, coat swirling behind him. John could hear Henry crying out, almost hysterically, "We saw it, we saw it!"

Over his shoulder Sherlock reacted with a sharp, "No, I didn't see anything."

Henry reacted with shock, and ran after Sherlock. "_What_? What are you talking about?" His disbelief was evident to John. It was almost as if he felt betrayed.

Sherlock was adamant. "I didn't …see…_anything_."

And that was the last thing that Sherlock said for some time. He got behind the driver's wheel, and sat stony-faced while the other two got into the back seat of the Landrover. By now Henry was almost hysterical and John focused on keeping him calm. Sherlock drove straight back to Knight's house, where John helped the young man out of the car and into the house, trying to calm him down. Rummaging in the bathroom cupboard, he found what he was looking for- a mild sedative prescribed by Henry's therapist. He could hear Henry talking in the background, half to himself, half to the doctor, repeating over and over that Sherlock must have seen the hound, no matter what he said. In an odd way, the younger man seemed to take some perverse comfort in that fact, as if it meant he was not making it all up.

By the time he got Henry calm enough to be left, Sherlock had retreated into total silence. No matter what John said, there was no reply. The short journey back to Grimpen was made even shorter by the speed with which Sherlock drove. Barely in control, he was well over the 40 limit, and John prayed they wouldn't find another bunch of sheep or a pony on the road. After a few abortive attempts to get Sherlock to slow down, John gave up. As soon as the Landrover was parked, Sherlock was out of the car and striding away from the Inn.

"Where are you going _now_, Sherlock?" John was just about at the end of his patience.

"I need to _think_."

"Well, you just do that. I'm hungry, tired and more than a little fed up. I'm going in, having a shower and then some supper."

There was no reply, not that he expected one. He watched his friend disappear into the darkness, before he turned and headed up to the room.

_And that was the fourth and most important missed opportunity. _When he next laid eyes on Sherlock, something had changed, and not for the better.


	17. Chapter 17

**Fallen Angel Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Four**

* * *

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot in the dark- he anchored himself to the sound and tried to block everything else out. The lights at the front of the Cross Keys Inn, the heat escaping from the overworked car engine that he could feel on his skin, the scent of motor oil and rubber that was the signature aroma of a Landrover driven hard. He fled them as fast as his unbalanced walking could take him.

John's voice pushed through the swirling sensations, but he ignored the words. He couldn't spare the mental effort needed to decode the meaning; he got enough from the peevish tone to know that he had done something wrong. John was angry again. He'd been getting angrier all afternoon, and Sherlock couldn't understand why.

He no longer cared. He just had to get away. Find a place with less stimulation, a chance to get his breathing back under control, catch his balance again and get rid of the images that were clogging up the Mind Palace.

As Sherlock forced his legs to carry him down the middle of the Grimpen Village road in the dark, he fisted his hands in his dark hair and pulled. _Stay upright. Do NOT fall. _He needed pain to centre himself again. _What's wrong with me?!_

Ever since he'd gone down into the hollow, he'd been a mess. What happened down there frightened him. _Not logical. Not possible. _ He _knew_ that he could not have seen what he _believed_ he had seen. He shook his head as if hoping to dislodge the image of a snarling canine the size of a pony that was burned into his retina. Was this some sort of strange meltdown? It felt a bit like one- only miles worse. Ever since he went into that hollow, he'd had a rising sense of panic. After trying to ignore it for more than a half an hour, he felt it blossom into a full fight-or-flight response.

He'd not lost control like this for years, even decades.

It had been like a car crash in ultraslow motion. As if watching himself from a distance, he recognised the symptoms. He'd seen the hound- yes, he believed he had, even though he knew such a thing did not, could not exist. He had been so shocked by that revelation that he had lied to Henry. Then on the way back to the Landrover, he watched as each box on the checklist of physical reactions was ticked. His chest tightened, his breathing sped up; a searing headache started at the back of his neck. He walked faster and faster, driven by a physiological, psychological pattern that he had wilfully deleted. Never mind; it all came rushing back. _Nothing is ever truly deleted_.

Once he got back to the car, he stared at the metal hulk, uncomprehending for a moment, and then realised that he was going to have to drive it, because Henry Knight was now almost hysterical and John didn't know how. _Can logic hold off the tidal wave?_

His need to flee overcame his reluctance to get behind the wheel in his current state. Sherlock somehow got himself under control enough to get the car started, into gear and move off. He didn't dare speak, knowing that his normal fluency would be replaced by a stuttering manic rant. He drove too fast, but he didn't seem to be able to control himself- the need to get off the moor took over. He drove into Henry Night's drive way, gravel spraying as he slammed on the brakes. When from the back seat John helped Henry from the car and into the house, Sherlock stayed immobile in the driver's seat - paralysed with anxiety.

_Please, John, hurry, hurry, hurry… I don't know how long I can last!_ It was the one lesson that Frank Wallace had drummed into his head along with every bit of road safety he could manage- "DON'T drive when you are having sensory issues. It's the fastest way to get yourself killed- and to kill others, too." The mantra came in a Scottish accented voice, and right now it was going around and around and around like some demented iPod shuffle gone wrong.

When John got back into the front passenger seat, Sherlock said nothing, just put the car into reverse and spun out another rash of gravel as he reversed and accelerated. Once on the main road, he drove like a man possessed. Around every bend, every dip of the road he waited for the red burning eyes, the snarling growl, the white of the fangs. If he looked in the rear-view mirror, it was all he could see. He shut off the noise of John talking; he was too far gone to understand a word of it.

When the beacon of the Inn's lights shone through the darkness, Sherlock homed in, like some guided missile on autopilot. Then it was in the car park space, engine off, take key from ignition and throw open the car door. Don't look at John, don't let him see. It's too embarrassing. Run, _RUN_.

But, his legs weren't able to comprehend what his mind was sending in terms of nerve impulses. He staggered on, past the last house on the lane, its curtained windows glowing with lights. His visual distortion was growing- every light source now had a circular aura around it, like some special effect on a camera. He fled further into the darkness.

His mind kept spinning off on tangents. He was glad that out here, in a rural village, there would be no CCTV cameras. For the last month, he'd lived in perpetual fear of being seen by his brother, finally succumbing to the pressure of it all. _Bastard, you WANT me to fail._

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the road and looked up, trying to find something to focus his eyes on, something to centre his attention.

There was nothing. No stars, no moon- no streetlights in the countryside. Just a dark blanket of moist and heavy cloud. He wished he could wrap himself up in a blanket, like he used to when he was a child. Tight. Heavy. He found his skin aching for the pressure of something heavy, something to replace the crawling, the tingling and twitching of nerves misfiring. He could hear his own heartbeat, thumping a staccato rhythm in his ear, as if the eardrum itself was vibrating in sympathy to the physical contractions of his heart muscle. He found himself counting the tiny gap between the nerve impulse firing and the muscle contracting, imagining the arrhythmia growing ever wider until finally his heart would just stop, unmoored from his brain, unwilling to keep him alive.

_Stop this, STOP IT NOW. You are not going to die. _ He staggered over to a darker shape at the side of the road, and realised that it was a bus shelter. A metal pole and a sign beside it confirmed his deduction as he threw himself onto the wooden slats of a bench and pushed his head down between his knees. _Don't pass out. You can manage this. _

A voice crept in- an avatar from his mind palace, one seldom accessed, and only in extreme emergencies. A soft calming voice, a scent of perfume that was unique, made for her by a company in Paris. She knew better than to touch him at times like these. The instructions though- they were welcome. "Breathe in, and count to five. Breathe out, and count to five. Do it again. Slower. Through your nose, not your mouth. Imagine the air filling up a balloon; keep going. Concentrate only on that one thing." He'd had panic attacks and meltdowns too often as a child. It made him terrified he was going to have another one when he least wanted it. That thought alone made it a self-fulfilling prophecy, all too often.

Sherlock's normal reaction to even a whiff of a meltdown was to run, to hide, to avoid. He had learned the worst possibility was to have one in the presence of his father. Somewhere in the dark of the bus shelter, he heard another voice cutting across his mother's soft instructions. "Not again, little brother; this is getting tedious." Mycroft's opprobrium had replaced that of his father. His brother used Sherlock's weaknesses to justify almost everything – limiting his independence, interfering with his choices, even his liberty on the occasions when enforced rehab was involved.

"No." He groaned, his ear hearing what his vocal chords formed into a word. The gap between the thought, the action and then hearing the sound seemed to stretch like an elastic band, with gaps of nothing in between. His sense of time was distorting now. _Another box ticked._

He was filled with an impossible rage. Sat upright and then leaned to the right until the side of his head smacked against the wooden side of the bus shelter. He did it again, and again, using the pain to give him a lifeline of control.

_There is too much at stake_. The whole of the Moriarty game plan depended on Sherlock being able to convince Elizabeth Ffoukes that he was capable of pulling it off, that Mycroft's prophecies of failure were wrong. The pressure of no case work was Mycroft's nuclear weapon- the ultimate test to destruction. _I have to pull myself together and get back in there._ If he couldn't do it, then his brother would win. No, worse, Morarity would win. And John would most likely die. And the Irishman would then probably kill Sherlock. _Too much to lose; have to stop this now._

Somehow, from somewhere deep inside him, Sherlock found the means to stand up, leave the bus shelter and head back to the lights of the Cross Keys Inn. _Work to be done._


	18. Chapter 18

**Fallen Angel Chapter Eighteen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Six**

* * *

When John went into the bar to pick up the room key, he snagged a Cornish pasty off the counter top and asked for a bottle of orange juice, taking both up to the room where he devoured them whilst watching the evening news. Then he unpacked, had a shower and changed his clothes. Once he felt human again, he went back downstairs, thinking that he'd have to go find Sherlock and see if he was alright. Sometimes, the two of them just needed to have a time out. He'd learned that when Sherlock retreated into non-communication mode, there wasn't a whole lot of point in hanging about or badgering him. It didn't work, and it only ended up annoying both of them. So, he'd learned the art of "getting some air". This time it was Sherlock who'd gone off for a walk, which was okay with John as it let him deal with the day's stresses and strains.

When he brought the plate and empty bottle back down to the bar, the proprietor gave him a smile. "Had a bit of a domestic, then?"

John shook his head emphatically, "we're not a couple; he's a friend and we work together, that's all." If John put a little more force behind the words than might have been polite, it was only because he was seriously tired of people always drawing the wrong conclusion.

"Oh." The big man pulled another pint, and looked over John's shoulder into the main room of the bar area. "Well, that's as may be, but your friend in there is in a right state. Came in here and ordered a double whisky and is now in there looking rattled. I thought you two had a tiff, but if that's not the case, then you'd best see what's the matter with him. He doesn't look well."

oOo

"Well" was not a word that Sherlock would even recognise at the moment. His need to deny Mycroft a victory was warring with the screaming voice in his head that said "Run. _HIDE_. You're not fit to be seen." He'd forced himself back into the Cross Keys, but the effort made his heart race and when he opened the door into the snug bar, the heat and noise hit him like a shock wave from a bomb. He literally staggered for a moment, but disguised it as he shook himself free from his Belstaff and hung it on the peg. He was sweating in seconds, his skin clammy and his shirt stuck to his back.

_Got to slow things down._ With this much panic floating around his veins, he needed a chemical solution. As averse as he was to alcohol, alternative drugs were not likely to be found late at night in the middle of Dartmoor. With perverse pleasure, he saw a bottle of Mycroft's favourite brand of single malt whisky on the shelf behind the barman.

"A double of the Dalmore 1978. On the tab." It gave him sadistic pleasure at the idea of putting the cost of the drink and the room tariff on the bill, given that it was secured by Mycroft's own credit card. John thought that the ID was the only thing he'd liberated from his brother. But, having given John his own bank card for safekeeping, Sherlock was nothing if not inventive.

"Oh, well done- so you've a taste for the _fine _stuff then." The barman was trying to be engaging. Sherlock couldn't spare the energy to even look at him, but collected the glass without another word and went into the smaller of the rooms, sitting in one of the only two unoccupied chairs, in front of the log fire. The other tables were occupied with diners, at various stages of an evening meal. He ignored them in the hope that they would ignore him. He took a deep gulp of the brown liquid down and harboured murderous thoughts about Mycroft.

"It's not your sort of indulgence, Sherlock, but then you don't go in for something as refined as alcohol, do you? And, taste just doesn't enter into the equation when you prefer to inject." The stentorian tones emerged from the mouth of his Mycroft avatar, who just sneered at him. "This 1978 vintage release from The Dalmore spent 29 years in American white oak before being transferred into Gonzales Byass ex-Sherry casks for two years of additional maturation."

_Pompous ass. _As if he gave a toss about it- it was still just 40% alcohol distilled from sprouted barley grains. The malting modified the starches into sugars- _Yes, Fatty- just like CAKE; excessively sweet, empty calories. No wonder you love it . _Monosaccharide glucose, disaccharide and trisaccharide maltose, and the maltodextrine sugars. Together with the sucrose and fructose found naturally in the grain, they provided more than enough sustenance for the yeasts to get to work during fermentation.

"Chemistry is so pedantic, Sherlock. You neglect the artistry. There were only ever 477 bottles of this particular Dalmore made." _And you've had more than your fair share, brother mine._ The avatar mocked him, "the nose offers freshly ground coffee, marzipan, dark berries and rich sherry, with milk chocolate and a hit of orange on the back palate notes." Sherlock took another swallow of the dark, strong alcohol, giving an involuntary shudder as it went down in a burn. The avatar was tutting at him now. "You really should have added water, Sherlock. You're the chemist; you should know that will bring out the smokiness." _Peat, you bastard; it's peat with high traces of organic matter, aldehydes and esters in the water they use in the distillation. _It was nothing like smoking. _God, I need a cigarette_. He'd have given a hundred pounds for one right now. It made him look back towards the bar. He stopped himself from getting up and going to ask where the cigarette machine was. Can't smoke in a pub anymore; illegal. _John will have put him on the payroll._ Just to ask would mean being busted, and John would come down on him like a tonne of bricks.

_Not fair, not fair, not fair!_ _I only agreed to do this when I wasn't in such desperate need._ Sherlock wondered if this was what it felt like to lose one's mind. What an odd phrase, as if he'd misplaced his sanity somewhere, like a scarf or a pair of gloves. But, whatever tricks his Mind Palace was playing on him right now, he wanted nothing more than for it to stop. Because it had betrayed him- it told him that there was a gigantic hound out on the moor. He'd seen it, when at one and the same time, he knew it was impossible.

Then he heard John behind him, talking to the barman. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he had the strength to get out of the room without causing a scene. All he wanted to do was flee. John would see that there was something wrong and then the game would be up, Mycroft would be called and he'd be dragged off to rehab again. _But, I'm NOT using! I haven't touched a needle or a pill. I'm CLEAN! _He closed his eyes to try to stem the rising tide of sensory distress and the emotional meltdown that was coming.

John came in and sat down in the other chair beside the fire. Sherlock heard him say something about Henry. At least he thought it might be the client; it could have been about him though- some drivel about being manic and believing he'd seen a gigantic dog. Yes- that fit him as well as Henry. The man was now blathering something meaningless about a Morse code and odd letters- U.M.Q.R.A. Disoriented, Sherlock could barely register what the doctor was saying. He tried to control his physical manifestations of his mental distress, but found it increasingly hard. Tremors, eye blinks- he was working up to the full Monty at any moment of twitching and flapping.

He summoned up _that_ avatar, and the scent of her calmed him for a nanosecond as she repeated in her soft gentle voice, "Breathe in through your nose. Count to Five. Now out through your mouth. Count to five. Slower. You can do this Sherlock, there is no need to panic."

_God, get a hold of yourself!_ He had to shut John up. The chatter was becoming too distracting. "Henry was right." It was the first thing that popped into Sherlock's mind and then straight out through his mouth, with no conscious thought involved.

"What?"

_Is the man deaf? Does he have any idea how hard it is to repeat myself? _But out it came anyway; like Pavlov's dog, Sherlock's tongue wagged by instinct, "I saw it too."

The idiot repeated his "What?"

Something inside Sherlock's head exploded at the repetition. He heard himself answering, "I saw it too, John." As if putting the man's name in front of the same words would help him understand it this time. But, he didn't. There ensued one of the strangest conversations Sherlock ever experienced. He had no conscious awareness of forming the words that he heard coming out of his mouth. Everything said was heard as if it were happening on another continent, with one of those annoying satellite delays and echoes going on. Most bizarre.

At some point, the tone changed. John put on his "doctor" voice and started saying things like "wired" and "worked up". Why would he mention a child psychologist called Spock? _Just go away, John. Leave me alone._ Then came a "dark and scary" comment- as if he was a child. Something ripped open Sherlock's reticence, and out came anger. He realised he was starting to hyperventilate.

_Why is everyone looking at me?_ He must have said something too loud, too inappropriate. _Inappropriate._ He'd been taught the meaning of that word from an early age, usually accompanied by a physical reminder from a father who thought his very existence to be inappropriate, if not downright inconvenient. He heard echoes of his ten year old voice in a half shouted, "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Then John asked a question that set Sherlock off on a strange tangent. Dog, dog, something about dogs. No not _that_ one; not the one that he had seen with Henry. No, this one was small and white and belonged to the widow and her pathetic son in the ghastly pullover sitting just there. Sherlock unleashed a frantic series of deductions to show that he was still in control. Mycroft had not won. He ended with a flourish, "I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just _leave me alone_."

Then John said something about friends, something that made no sense to Sherlock. His tongue said something again; he couldn't be sure what it was, but he put enough venom behind it to make it clear to the doctor that he needed to disappear. Whatever he said must have worked, because John disappeared and Sherlock could breathe again. For almost ten minutes he had a chance to try to calm himself down. Then he felt the eyes of the other people in the room on him. Any moment now someone was going to say something, and he couldn't bear it any longer. He'd spent his entire life living in fear of what people were going to say about how he was behaving. The whisky was sloshing around in his stomach making him feel nauseated. He had to get up and leave, or embarrass himself even further.

On his way out of the room, Sherlock noticed the barman- this time talking to a woman who had just sat down. Sherlock's glance at her made him almost stop mid-step. His addled brain seized hold of her image as if it was a life line. _Important; she's important_. The case- this was something crucial. The barman addressed her by name. "Doctor Mortimer", that's what he called her. This was Henry's therapist. Sherlock carried on walking past and then stopped just in the doorway. For a split second he was torn, afraid to leave. She could be crucial to the case, but he was in no way capable of holding a conversation or getting what he needed from her. He groaned inwardly. _Where's John when I really need him?_ Yes, he knew that he'd just chased him away, but he needed him back now or they'd lose this chance. He fumbled in his suit pocket, his hands shaking so much that it was hard to grip the phone. When he finally got it out, it took him three goes to type in and then correct the mistakes.

**10.18pm Henry's therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub S**

The reply was almost instant,

**10.19pm So?**

_Not helpful, John_. It provoked a growl from Sherlock.

**10.19pm Interview her?**

This time Sherlock's anger fuelled his texting, so he managed to do it without having to make any corrections. A moment later, his phone chirped and he looked at the screen.

**10.19pm WHY SHOULD I?**

By now Sherlock was standing in front of the coat peg with his Belstaf. All he wanted to do was flee, and John had decided to get bolshie on him. He banged his head up against the coat in frustration. He wracked his memory to try to understand why John would be so aggressively annoying. Probably something he'd said. Whatever it was, he'd deleted it. _Appeal to his baser instincts._ He walked back to the doorway, adjusted the setting on his phone so it wouldn't flash and took the woman's picture. Then he sent it. The therapist was pretty, about John's age and she was "his type", whatever that meant. Sherlock knew from experience that whenever John got peeved with his behaviour, he'd usually go off and seek female companionship as some sort of antidote of normality. Well, for once he could do that and be helpful at the same time.

Sherlock had just enough presence of mind to grab his coat off the peg, but lacked the physical capacity to put it on before bolting from the Inn. The cool night air slapped his damp skin and overheated face, and for a moment he just stopped, willing to be overwhelmed by the temperature change. Then his body betrayed him, yet again, by starting to shiver involuntarily, his stomach muscles beginning to spasm. And it got harder to breathe.

This time he knew he could not go back indoors. He was going to have to find a place to hide. Because whatever was going on in his mind, it was getting harder and harder to put two thoughts together. It was like someone was driving a spike into the back of his head.

He knew he was only moments away from vomiting, which got him moving again. He stepped away from the building and headed down the line of the cars parked in front. When he reached the dark familiar bulk of the Landrover, he walked to the driver's side, and squatted down, heaving up the dregs of Mycroft's favourite malt whisky. _That was an even shorter lease than John's beer._ The thought gave him the giggles, which he recognised as incipient hysteria. He heaved again. And found himself wishing that the Mycroft avatar would shut up about what a waste of good whisky it was.

Once he was sure there was nothing left to vomit, he unlocked the back of the Landrover, and crawled in. Pushing himself to the back of the luggage compartment, he pulled his Belstaff over his head and tried to ride out whatever it was that was tearing his head apart.


	19. Chapter 19

**Fallen Angel Chapter Nineteen**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Seven**

* * *

The hallucination started not quite an hour later. Sherlock's avatars were a useful addition to his Mind Palace, but there were some that he rarely used, and only _in extremis_. When one of these started talking to him, he realised that this was no ordinary meltdown.

"So, remind me why we are hiding in the back of this hunk of British tin?" The Irish accent was unmistakeable. Sherlock pulled the Belstaff away from his face, and looked across the back compartment of the Landrover at the man he least expected or wanted to see.

He struggled into an upright position, pushing himself as far away from those manic eyes as he could get. _Get out of my mind. I don't need you now!_

"Oh, no, no, no my little consulting detective; you aren't in charge. The consulting criminal is…didn't I make that clear that night at the pool?" Moriarty tutted. "Just look at you. What a mess. And you think you have what it takes to beat me?" He started to laugh. "Oh My God- how very pathetic. Can't even manage a little local Devon mystery and you think you can take me on? I have a worldwide network, Sherlock. You'll have to raise your game if you want to play with me."

The man in a sharp suit leaned forward with an avid mania in his eyes. "I'm just going to eat you up, Sherlock. That's no hound out on the moor- it's _me. _I'm on the prowl and I'm going to catch you. Sink me teeth into you and spit the bones out on your brother's door step. Then he can say, 'I told you so, Sherlock; you were too little to play with the big boys.'"

With a snarl of rage, Sherlock flung himself at the man, arms out to crush the life out of that cocky mouth. His hands hit the side of the back window, where the white throat had just been inviting him to take a short cut through all his best laid plans.

The voice started up behind him- in the very same corner that he'd just thrown himself out of. "You missed me, you missed me; now you've got to kiss me…" The childish taunt made him whirl around to see those dark eyes staring right back into his, only inches away. "I'm not _reeeeally here_, Sherlock. Haven't you figured that out by now? Or are you so far gone that you can't recognise a hallucinogen when you're actually under the influence?"

"I'm CLEAN. I'm not taking drugs." He started to roll up his sleeve on his left arm to prove the point.

"Oh, you _are_ an idiot. Sherlock's an idiot; Sherlock's an idiot." The same sing-song taunts of his childhood, now spouted by his deadliest enemy.

Moriarty clapped his hands together in glee. "Who said anything about you _taking_ drugs, you moron? But someone naughty might have _given_ you drugs- without you knowing. You know, slipped you a 'mickey finn', spiked a drink, fed you a fudge brownie? There are lots of ways you can be drugged without you knowing."

"_OH!"_ Sherlock sank back against the window. _This isn't a meltdown. I'm not losing my mind. I've been drugged!_

The Irishman was now grinning at him. "Lookey, lookey- the penny's dropped, that slow Mind Palace of yours finally got there. You'll have to do better than this, Sherlock."

"Go away. You've served your purpose." To his surprise, the avatar obliged, vanishing with a virtual politeness that his real life incarnation had never possessed.

It fit. The symptoms he had been feeling- loss of physical control, his mental confusion, the tremors and emotional outbursts. Fear, panic and paranoia. Not signs of mental breakdown, or even a meltdown caused by sensory overload. No- this was drug-induced. And the fact that he had realised it was due to the drug starting to wear off.

He started to work backwards. When and where could he have been drugged and by whom? Even more important, with what? This didn't feel like any drug trip that Sherlock had enjoyed before, and he had experimented with quite a few over the years. Normally, he didn't favour hallucinogens. Really didn't do it for him. He looked for a stimulant to focus his acuity, or an opiate to try to switch off the overload. There never really seemed much point to willfully distorting one's perceptions of reality. His senses were too highly strung to start with.

But under the influence of a mind-bending drug, the simple suggestion of a gigantic hound could have led him to believe he had seen it.

Then, had both he and Henry been drugged? If so, Knight must have also been drugged the night before he arrived at Baker Street in a state of panic. _File that- it's an important clue._

But what about John? He wasn't with them when they saw the hound; did that mean he wasn't drugged, or that he was, but the trigger wasn't present? He needed to think this through very carefully.

And above all else, _WHY_? What advantage was gained by drugging either Henry Knight or the consulting detective he'd hired to find out what was happening? Who benefited from this?

His brain was still as slow as treacle. The drug must be interfering with things, making it harder for him to deduce motive, and opportunity. Yet, as frustrating as the slow train of thought was, he also welcomed it with open arms. Meltdowns were incredibly embarrassing. For someone who prided himself on his logical control, the total loss of control was just … humiliating. _I feel like I'm ten years old again_. The scene in the pub in front of John was just raw, unfiltered exposure of a part of him that he thought he'd beaten. To realise that it was a drug that was doing this to him rather than a regression was a revelation.

_I'm not going crazy. This isn't me. _The sense of relief was…overwhelming.

oOo

Relief was not something that John was feeling. With each passing minute, he was getting more concerned about Sherlock's disappearance. It was strange. Out here, where the chance of him going off the rails and succumbing to the temptation of drugs was so slim, John should be relaxed about the man going AWOL. The worst that he could be doing is smoking a cigarette cadged off of some diner at the Inn. There was no shop in the village, not that it would be open at this hour in any case. So, there was no reason to panic.

And yet. Sherlock's behaviour had been both perplexing and way out of line. Months ago, John had read up on how people on the Spectrum can behave, when he learned that his flatmate was…well, who he was. Some of the symptoms were recognisable, everyday fare for anyone living in close proximity of the man. The agitation, the sensory overloads, the timeouts playing possum on the sofa, the lack of social skills, the importance of familiar faces, places and routines to his mental well-being. But, until now, he'd never seen a meltdown. Was that what had happened in their fireside chat? The doctor couldn't figure it out.

Sherlock's reactions had been atypical from the very start: the "will I, won't I?" vacillation about taking the case, then the bizarre behaviour with Henry Knight even at the first interview. But, Sherlock's total callousness about taking a traumatised man onto the moor angered John. The result could have set Henry back seriously in his treatment. He was also angry at his own inability to get Louise Mortimer to tell him much of anything before Doctor Frankland intervened and sabotaged his efforts, all but saying that he and Sherlock were more than just colleagues.

He groaned at that thought. "Colleagues"- that's what he'd said to correct Sherlock's use of the word friend in front of Sebastian Wilkes all those months ago. But, now when he tried to use the "friend" word, he'd had it thrown back in his face. And Sherlock was doing his damnedest to keep him in the dark about what was going on. He felt so…frustrated and useless. It made him question the whole point of why he was here.

Something seismic had shifted in their relationship, and he didn't know what it meant. It was worrying him. How should he react? The texts had all stressed how important it was to avoid being judgemental. He remembered one "how to handle a meltdown" site- the checklist said "DO NOT ask me if I am drunk or on drugs." That raised a wry smile, because if he didn't know any better, that's what he would have assumed last night was all about- that somehow Sherlock had found a stash of something weird in the wilds of Dartmoor and was having a bad trip. But, apart from the moments when they'd been separated from them at Dewer's Hollow, he'd been with Sherlock since they left London. And he'd been acting strange even before that.

_Shows what little I know about what goes on in that head of his._

That checklist had said not to go after someone in meltdown- to give them space, and not to press them. As much as John wanted to know what the hell Sherlock was doing, that checklist kept reappearing in his thoughts. The site was written by someone with Asperger's who wrote that after a meltdown, it took time for the person to re-establish their equilibrium, warning "Unless you can handle an unfiltered aspie, proceed with caution."

As he put on his pyjamas and crawled into his bed, John turned out the light. He didn't think Sherlock was likely to be reappearing anytime soon.


	20. Chapter 20

**Fallen Angel Chapter Twenty**

* * *

**Hellish Hound- Part Eight**

* * *

At 5.30am John's resolve cracked. He'd barely slept; what little he'd managed had been interrupted by dreams of howling dogs chasing him through a forest.

When he finally gave up and decided to get up, the empty untouched twin bed next to his accused him of neglect. No sign of the consulting detective, and the sun had been up for a while already. The joys of an English summer- even when the air was still crisp, the longest day wasn't far off, so the sun rose at the ridiculous hour of 4.45am. As he shaved, washed and dressed, three texts had been sent, but no response received. John put his green jacket on and went out into the crisp morning air. The Landrover was still in its place. As he walked by it, his nose caught a whiff of stale vomit, so he investigated, and found a patch, not yet dried by the sun, given it was in the shade cast between the driver's door and the next parked car.

So, Sherlock had been ill. That fitted with a meltdown and sensory disruption. Whatever that website had said about giving someone space, John's irritation at his friend's outrageous behaviour of the previous night was being edged out now by concern. He'd been so worried about Henry Knight's traumatic reaction that he had not thought much about Sherlock. Yet, the more he rehearsed the scene in the pub, the more he realised that Sherlock was definitely not reacting rationally.

He decided to do the one thing that he had not done before now when confronted by Sherlock's behaviour last night. He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial- third number down the list.

Mycroft's calm tones answered on the third ring. "Doctor Watson. How may I be of assistance at this early hour?"

_Does he never sleep?_ "You do know where we are?"

"Of course, the security team were kind enough to inform me of your unauthorised presence at Baskerville. How did you manage to talk your way out?"

"That's a story for later. What's needed now is…some advice." John could almost visualise the left eyebrow rising on that rather patrician face. "Sherlock…" the doctor ground to a halt. He wasn't sure how to phrase it.

"What's he done now? Do attempt to put it into words; contrary to what my brother might think, I am not a mind-reader."

The tone annoyed John enough that he snapped back, "he had what I think would be characterised as a full scale meltdown last night. And he's disappeared, too. On foot; the car's still in front of the hotel."

"Describe it." The previous caustic sarcasm was replaced by a more neutral tone.

So John did, in detail. After which, he added, "And when he assured me that he was fine, I decided to follow what the website suggested and leave him to it, rather than provoke anything more. I thought once he'd cooled off that he'd show up, but it's now nine hours later and there's no sign. No response to a text either."

"Well, if he is off walking on the moor somewhere, don't expect his phone to get a signal. He may not have received the texts."

John hadn't realised that until Mycroft said it, and he felt foolish. And then worried. "That means if he was in trouble, he'd not be able to phone for help."

"My brother rarely has the presence of mind to seek help, and, generally speaking, the more he needs it, the less likely it is that he will try."

John didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. The silence lengthened.

"This is the reason why I did not want Sherlock to take cases at the moment, Doctor. He is overreaching himself. Are you sure he isn't indulging in some forbidden substances? Sounds like a danger night more than a meltdown."

John laughed. "This is the middle of Dartmoor, Mycroft. He consumed a double scotch and then threw it up outside- I've seen the evidence. He's never been a drinker. As for anything harder, well, he didn't bring anything with him- not even a nicotine patch- yes, I checked. As for getting something here, well, the population of Grimpen village is less than forty and, according to the innkeeper, three quarters of those are retirees. I don't think it's a case of popping down to the nearest street corner cocaine dealer."

"Sounds rather…rural. Tell me more about this little mystery of yours and why it has taken you to this godforsaken backwater."

So, John did- as much as he understood of it. And when he'd finished recounting what he knew about Henry Knight's case, he realised that it sounded…lame, odd.

"So, my brother isn't sharing much at all with you these days."

John winced. "No need to rub it in, Mycroft. I'm more than aware that I don't understand what's going on." He drew a breath. "I called for advice about what to do in a post-meltdown period- because that's what I think I saw last night. What's the form? How long do I wait for him to reappear? And if he shows up, what's the best way of dealing with it? I assume you have some experience with this."

"It's been _years_ since I've had to."

"And there's me assuming that your memory was as least as good as his." John was annoyed enough to let his sarcasm show.

"If he really is clean, then let him come to you. Don't expect an apology for a meltdown. Hell would freeze over first. If he is following old form, he will be…emotionally volatile for a while. Just ignore that, if he will let you. He might be needlessly provocative- as if overcompensating. It generally doesn't last all that long. And then he's back to normal- or, rather, what passes for normal with him." There was a brief pause. "He can have a cluster of meltdowns- that's rather tedious. If that shows signs of happening, then I want to know, Doctor Watson. You'll need reinforcements."

"Oh, God, Mycroft- one sign of you showing up and it would be guaranteed to push him over the edge. I don't know what you two are feuding about now, but it is really annoying. I swear that half of yesterday's assault on Baskerville was designed to tweak your nose; he was taking far too much pleasure at abusing your ID. Just this once, can you let him finish this case without having to fight you every step of the way?"

"Never fear- I wouldn't dream of interrupting your little holiday in the country. I have better things to do than to chase after a wayward brother."

John didn't have anything else to say except goodbye. And then he went back into the Inn and ordered what the menu described as 'a full English cooked breakfast'.

Gary the innkeeper was on waiter duty, and took the order.

"I don't suppose you could manage a sausage or couple of rashers of bacon?" The Cornish pasty from last night had not been enough, and John was hungry.

"Ah, no bacon; 'fraid not. This is a vegetarian establishment. I can manage quorn sausages, though. You really wouldn't know the difference."

John was certain he would. It made him remember the receipt he'd lifted off of the spike- from a butcher for a large quantity of meat. "Sure you don't have a secret supply in the back somewhere? Maybe for your own consumption?"

Gary laughed. "It's more than my life's worth. The other half won't have it in the kitchen; that's Billy's kingdom. I've learned to curb my carnivore instincts. The things we do for love."

Once he'd delivered the order to the kitchen the big man came back with a pot of coffee. As he filled John's cup, he asked "Did your friend get in okay last night? We usually lock up at 1 o'clock and give anyone who's going to be out later a key. But he left before I could give him one. I felt bad about that, so I took the risk and left the latch up on the front door. With all this nonsense about a rabid dog on the moor, I don't think a burglar's likely."

"I don't know; haven't seen him." John opened up the Western Morning News and buried his nose in it. He really wasn't in the mood for a chat. Fortunately, the man got the message and when he delivered the fried eggs, fried mushrooms, tomato, baked beans and granary brown toast, he didn't try to resume the conversation.

After breakfast, John went for a stroll. It was a sunny day, but there was a chilly breeze, so he kept his green jacket on. He came across a marked footpath, with a sign beside it and a crude map that seemed to indicate that the path went in the general direction of Henry Knight's house, so he took it. A half hour later, he recognised the house, and went up to ring the bell.

"Doctor Watson." Henry looked haggard and tired. He'd taken a while to answer the door, but John remembered it was a big house, so had been patient.

"Mister Knight. How are you feeling?" John wondered if the sedative had helped him sleep. By the look of it, perhaps not.

The young man sighed. "Awful. Didn't sleep at all well, despite that pill. I kept waking up because the outside security light kept coming on and then off. I think there are foxes at the bottom of the garden. Gave me the most terrible nightmare when I did finally drop off. I saw that bloody hound again in my dreams." He seemed to give himself a shake. "I'm forgetting my manners. Come in. I'll make you some coffee."

As John followed him into the kitchen, Henry kept talking. "I never got around to getting coffee earlier. Mister Holmes said he would make me some, but then he bolted before the kettle actually boiled. The mugs should still be here." He went over to the central island and rescued the two mugs.

"Sherlock was here? He _made you coffee? _ He never makes coffee. When?" John tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Henry plodded over to the kitchen sink with the kettle to fill it with water. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "About ninety minutes ago. Came in full of energy, bounced about and then just…well, bounced out. I was a bit cross with him, actually. He wouldn't answer me, wouldn't explain why he lied about seeing the hound. Just asked me why I called it a _hound_. When I couldn't explain it, he just left- without making the coffee."

The kettle clicked off, having reached boiling point. Henry looked so shattered that John stepped over and took it off the connection and carried it over to the mugs, filling them. "Do you take milk? I can't remember from yesterday."

Henry stirred off the stool and reached into the fridge. "Yes, a little. And sugar." His voice sounded flat, almost monotone. "You don't take sugar; Mister Holmes and I do. Is it because you're a doctor?"

John handed over the mug to Henry and pushed a teaspoon in his direction. Henry looked in the empty bowl, then wandered over to the cabinet. Then he looked surprised. "I'm sure I had a bag of sugar in there." He pulled a drawer out and picked out a little paper tube of brown sugar. "I prefer the white stuff, but keep some of this for guests. I don't suppose it really matters; it's just sugar." He stirred his coffee in a desultory manner.

John was worried by his lack of energy. "Henry, are you going to be alright? I am sorry about last night- I really shouldn't have let Sherlock talk you into going onto the moor at night. For someone experiencing flashbacks, it must have been horrible."

Henry looked down at his coffee. "I agreed to it- it's not anybody else's fault. I thought it might help. And, in one sense, it did, because I _know_ he saw it too. He just doesn't want to admit it. That's my problem, no one believes me. I thought if Sherlock Holmes was willing to say he'd seen it, then I'm not crazy."

"Well, for what it's worth, Sherlock told me last night that he had seen the hound. He was pretty upset about it, too. I...found it hard to believe him, but then I didn't see it."

"I need to tell Doctor Mortimer that. She keeps trying to tell me I'm delusional. I keep telling her I'm not crazy."

John gave him a reassuring smile as he finished his coffee. "You're not _crazy_; but you are exhausted. You need to try to get some rest. I've got to go now, but I don't really like leaving you on your own. Is there someone I can call? What about Doctor Mortimer?"

"She's due here later- I've booked the whole afternoon with her. I…need to talk to someone about this."

"She seems to be a good listener. I met her last night at the pub. I hope she can help."

"What are you going to do now, Doctor Watson?"

"I'm going to go try to find Sherlock. I wonder if he might need to talk to someone, too."


	21. Chapter 21

**Fallen Angel Chapter Twenty One**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Nine**

* * *

At the moment that John was leaving Henry's, Sherlock was back at the Cross Keys, muttering about slow wifi connections. He needed access to check two things- first, just who Doctor Frankland was and second, whether Doctor Stapleton's background qualified her for genetic manipulation of higher mammals- of the canine variety. What little he could glean was enlightening. Next time they met, he'd be more prepared.

He decided to check into a certain Norwegian email system. After encryption and re-routing through enough overseas ISPs that his brother would not be able to trace him, he opened an inbox and scanned Lars Sigurson's incoming messages. He responded to one, and sent four others in rapid succession. He needed to keep building the man's reputation, and that needed attention every day.

The slow bandwidth was driving him up the wall with frustration. When he was timed out for the third time, he closed down the encryption routine, slammed the laptop closed and left it on the bed.

For the third time that morning, he wondered where John was. It was now almost noon. He'd found the phone messages when he got back from Henry's, and his phone finally acquired a signal. Grimpen obviously had some form of mobile antenna- probably the same as the pub's broadband- rather hit or miss. His reply had not been responded to- probably meant John was out walking on the moor somewhere. The innkeeper had said he'd seen him go out just after ten.

Sherlock was torn. On the one hand, he wanted desperately to talk to John about last night's revelation- that he'd been drugged- and that both he and Henry were most likely victims of the same drugging. He had the suspect bag of sugar; now he needed a way to analyse it. He found himself annoyed at the lack of facilities. Baker Street's chemistry kit would probably not have managed to isolate what it was that set them both off on their hallucinogenic trip; he really needed the equipment at Barts. And he needed to experiment, under controlled circumstances, to confirm what he suspected about the drug. He could still feel the aftershocks of the drug rattling around in his system. He felt on edge, uncomfortably anxious. It was affecting his judgement. _Stick to the plan._

Whatever weakness the drug was inducing in him, he knew he couldn't talk to John the way he wanted to. He had to keep him at arms' length- all part of the preparation for the game about to begin with Moriarty. If John was annoyed with him- and he seemed to be when he walked off from the fireside confrontation- then that was probably another useful way to put more distance between them. There would come a point when for his own safety, John would need to stop working with him, or even move out of Baker Street. Why that distressed Sherlock bothered him. _I can't afford to rely on anyone. This has to be done alone; no one can know, least of all John._ He dragged out of his Mind Palace his Mycroft avatar at his most irritating- "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Let that be his mantra. He could leave no hostages to fortune; he would have to keep the doctor annoyed with him, fuelling his anger and frustration at not being told what was going on.

Sherlock sighed, and went off to find John. Time to rub him up the wrong way again.

oOo

He found him sitting on a bench in the churchyard. He decided to try to judge John's mood before committing too much. So, he came at the topic obliquely, asking him about the Morse code that he thought he had seen being flashed across the moor. He wasn't sure why, but that had an immediate effect of annoying the doctor even more. Sherlock realised that the doctor was waiting for something from him.

_What do you want from me? An admission that I was drugged up to my eyes last night, and off my head?_ As if Sherlock would admit to that- or apologise for his behaviour. Social conventions were just…a waste of time.

Sherlock decided on another oblique angle, so he asked John about Louise Mortimer, and whether he'd had any luck with her. Uncomfortable with the reaction he got, he added a slightly snide comment about John's attempted chat up of the therapist. That fell flat, earning him a snappy retort about not being funny and that it would be better if he just "stuck to ice".

_Why does that…hurt?_ It did, and that surprised Sherlock. _Is this the drug talking? _He couldn't afford to be sentimental. That said, he needed John to help out on this case. They were going to have to talk their way back into Baskerville somehow, so he could get access to the analysis equipment. Then John was suddenly marching off, stiff backed with anger.

_Why is he angry with me? _This was so not what he needed at the moment. The drug still seemed to be making him slow. He blurted out to John's retreating back: "No, wait. What happened last night…" He tried to explain, but John was being obtuse, and saying something about him being "scared"- the tone of voice on that word made Sherlock feel like he was ten years old again, facing an uncomprehending brother. He tried to shrug off the feeling, only to realise that John was walking away again. Sherlock knew then that he couldn't admit to John about being drugged; given what the doctor had been thinking back at Baker Street, it would be as good as an admission of guilt that he'd taken something. Somehow, he didn't think John would trust him. That annoyed Sherlock, who caught up with the doctor and grabbed his arm, pulling him around, explaining how he had been unable to trust his senses. _Let him think it was a meltdown._

And then John was telling him he couldn't have actually seen a "kind of monster." When Sherlock admitted his confusion about both seeing it and not believing it, John just turned away and said something about having something to go on, and good luck with it, before walking away again.

For a split second, Sherlock realised that the distance between the two men was widening to a chasm. And he wasn't ready. _Not yet; it's not necessary yet._ Without thinking, he knew he had to do something quickly.

"I meant what I said, John. I don't have friends. I just have one." It was a shameless play on the doctor's emotions. Yet, it was honestly said. Maybe that's what made John stop and look back at him. There was the briefest of nods, and a terse, "right." But, he didn't stop walking.

While Sherlock was floundering over what to do or say next, his Mind Palace took over. _Oh! _ It was as if the software had been running in background mode all along, and suddenly popped up with something significant. He realised that once again, John's obscure ramblings had triggered something unexpected.

He shouted out his delight at the breakthrough, but John seemed to wilfully misunderstand. _Doesn't matter._ Sherlock was just bouncing with energy, catching up to the doctor and then walking backwards to keep the man in focus, explaining why- the acronym- it resonated with something buried deep somewhere in his Mind Palace. He didn't know what the initials stood for, but he k_new_ the letters were more important than the word they made up. John said something about Sherlock not spoiling his saying "sorry". That didn't make sense-didn't he understand that regret was the last thing in Sherlock's mind at the moment? _Sorry? _ He wasn't sorry at all- John had just demonstrated why he was so useful to Sherlock, didn't he understand that? Sherlock just let his delight spill out, writing out the letters with full stops to show John what he meant.

They were now standing outside the front of the inn. For the first time, John seemed intrigued and asked him what the letters might mean.

"_Absolutely_ no idea but ...," he drew to a halt as he spotted a familiar figure standing at the bar, talking to the innkeeper. _What is Lestrade doing here?_

* * *

**Author's** **Note**: If you want to know how this felt from Greg's POV and what happened next, take a look at the latest Chapter of _Got My Eye on You_.


	22. Chapter 22

**Fallen Angel Chapter Twenty Two**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Ten**

**Author's Note:** If you, like me, wondered why on earth Mycroft would agree to Sherlock going back into Baskerville, here's my take on why. Oh, and what happened next, too.

* * *

As Sherlock walked away from the Cross Keys pub, he told John that they were heading back to Baskerville. The doctor was sceptical about whether the ID trick would work again, but Sherlock replied that they might not have to and pulled out his phone.

"Hello, brother dear. How are you?" He put all the insincerity he could into the request.

"What are you up to, Sherlock? What is going on?" Mycroft's tone was terse.

"Oh goody, I've interrupted a meeting. I do hope you've someone _really _important in the room. I've discovered something interesting that suggests your grip on the secret military research agenda is not all that you'd like it to be."

There was a sigh on the other end. "And you've just decided to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong…again?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to deal with that comment. "I need 24 hours' access Baskerville - your ID will work again, so long as you don't blow the whistle."

"And what possible motive would I have for doing something so irrational?"

"Because the alternative will be a rather painfully embarrassing exposure of just how much has gone on without your knowledge. Can you _really_ afford a public demonstration of your limitations right now? Hmm?"

That barb must have struck home. A rather world-weary sigh was then followed by Mycroft's cagey reply, "As you seem to think this is a negotiation, what's in it for me?"

"In exchange for this _truce_, I'll tell you more about…what you want to know about. Deal?" There was a silence. _Oh, that's got your interest, brother mine_.

"Deal." The phone call was terminated abruptly. Sherlock smirked. He did _so_ enjoy annoying Mycroft. As he stuffed the phone back into his pocket and got into the Landrover, he told John cheerily, "We're good to go."

But, the thin veneer of exaggerated geniality with both his brother and now John was designed to hide the fact that he was seething. _The fat bastard- sending Lestrade to spy on me._ The situation so enraged Sherlock that he'd just decided to take the next step. On the spur of the moment, he had seized the opportunity to drug John, who seemed complicit with the DI. _Mycroft has corrupted him, too._ For the first time in their relationship, Sherlock did not feel able to trust John. There was no way that Mycroft could have known about what happened on the moor last night, yet the DI had magically appeared. He deduced that John must have made a call.

And that changed things. Sherlock decided that rather than experiment on himself with the drug, as he had planned, he would try it out on an unsuspecting _normal_ person- John was the perfect test subject. Whatever qualms he might have had about subjecting the doctor to such an experiment, they went out of the window when he watched John and Lestrade trying to downplay the case as a simple ruse run by the innkeeper and his boyfriend. Sherlock knew what he'd seen last night; knew what Henry Knight believed he had seen too. It was linked to Baskerville- no matter what John Watson and 'Greg' Lestrade thought. And drugs were involved. He knew that John's "zero tolerance" attitude would make him jump to the wrong conclusion if Sherlock told him about his theory of being drugged. What better way to demonstrate that he wasn't succumbing to temptation than to let the doctor experience it himself? He wouldn't be able to argue then that it was Sherlock's problem. _Turnabout is fair play._

oOo

By the time they got to Baskerville, Sherlock had plotted it all out. Given his own delay between drinking coffee at Henry's and then going out onto the moor, he figured it would take about another half hour before the drug reached its full potency in John's blood system. Sherlock came up with a legitimate reason to split up, sending John to 'investigate' while he kept the commander 'otherwise occupied.' Once official cooperation was secured from Major Barrymore, he tracked John's movements by using the security card swipe records, and then spotted his opportunity. _Laboratory conditions, indeed._

Sherlock knew from personal experience that whatever the drug was, it had the effect of opening the person to suggestion. While waiting, he downloaded some appropriate audio clips- canine noises. Then John came into the lab, and he watched him cross the room and enter another smaller room to the side. As he locked the doors out of the lab beneath his control room, John re-entered the main room. Sherlock activated an arc lamp and turned on all of the lights, and set off an alarm to overload John's sensory system. Then he plunged the room into darkness with only the emergency lighting on. Fascinated, he watched as John's behaviour became increasingly erratic and stressed. Playing the canine noises- a growl, snarling and the sound of nails on a floor- over the PA system had the desired effect. The panicked phone call from John gave him the perfect opportunity to crank up the pressure and to give tangible shape to the doctor's growing terror. _You believe me now, don't you, John?_

When he went to rescue the doctor from the cage where the terrified man had locked himself in, Sherlock tested the degree to which suggestability was present. When he got John to agree that he had seen a huge hound with glowing red eyes, he'd done enough.

"I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."

"Drugged?" John was still shaky, but was getting his emotions back under control.

_Interesting._ Sherlock realised that the doctor's reaction was shorter-lived- maybe the dose had been lower? Or perhaps his own hypersensitivity made it more of an issue, setting off the equivalent of a melt-down in someone with neuro-atypical reactions? His reaction had been more traumatic- and Henry's even worse.

Sherlock got the doctor underway again, heading back to the lab where Doctor Stapleton was working. He needed to analyse the drug in the sugar.

Doctor Stapleton agreed to co-operate, once Sherlock made it clear that he knew about her mistake with the glow-in-the-dark rabbit ending up in her daughter's hutch. He was soon absorbed in his chemical analysis, only vaguely aware of what was going on between John and the geneticist in the background. The tone in her voice seemed concerned at one point. A quick glance aside from the microscope caught John looking rather spaced out. He filed that reaction- at least he wasn't experiencing hallucinations. And there appeared to be no nausea, either. _Too low a dose?_

The first four tests did not reveal what he expected. Growing increasingly exasperated, he started to hypothesise a chemical structure, to see if he could find what must be there in the sucrose mixture.

He could hear their conversation- something about a dolly and sheep. _God, how banal other people's conversations are. _It was annoying and broke his concentration. Not that he was making any progress- the principal ingredient was obviously sucrose- C12H22O11- a disaccharide composed of glucose and fructose. The solubility was exactly as predicted for sugar- which made no sense. Sherlock expected the chemical signature to show some form of ergoline compound, possibly related to lysergic acid diethylamide. But the basic lab tests showed no sign of anything else in the sample. _Nothing but sugar._ Enraged, he threw the slide against the wall, where the glass shattered. He shouted his rage- "It's not there!"

"Jesus!"

John's stock startled reaction annoyed Sherlock even more. Frustrated, he repeated himself, "Nothing there! Doesn't make any sense."

The woman asked what he was expecting to find. Sherlock was already pacing with agitation and snarled out "a drug, of course. There has to be a drug. A hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar."

John did his parrot imitation- repeating what Sherlock said, only with a question at the end of it. That infuriated Sherlock even more. "The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn't, John. You didn't see it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don't take sugar in your coffee."

John was still slow on the uptake, so Sherlock explained more. "I took it from Henry's kitchen- his sugar." He stared at the microscope as if blaming it for failing him. "It's perfectly alright."

John tried to suggest that it wasn't a drug, but Sherlock told him there was no alternative- it had to be a drug. He just had to figure out how it got into their systems. Logic could sort this. He decided to filter out their talking, and then closed his eyes. There was something…he could feel that same prickle of precognition- the same reaction he'd had the very first time that Henry Knight had uttered those words at Baker Street about the 'gigantic hound'. It always came back to that word- or the initials. "There has to be something…something….ah, something buried deep." But, as he reached for it, he was distracted by the woman doctor's perfume. It annoyed him. "Get out." He pointed at her. "Get out. I need to go to my Mind Palace."

As the door shut behind them, he could breathe again without being distracted. And he started digging. This time it was Donovan's nasal whine that announced the forensic avatar's presence. "So what have you got, Freak?"

"Three words- Hound. Liberty. In."

"Not much to go on- two nouns and a preposition." The sarcastic comment stimulated four different directions- like a human compass, Anderson pointed down corridors.

Sherlock was irritated by the avatar."No, no, no- not words like that. Hound stands for something- so initials." One corridor went dark, and the lights went on behind him. Sherlock turned around and walked down it. He could hear Anderson's footsteps behind him.

"Is Liberty a noun?"

Sherlock considered the idea in various shapes and guises- and then rejected them. Looking down the corridor, there were no doors. He huffed in frustration. Three words, in relation to one another? He considered it as a three dimensional problem. Anderson's voice behind him said, "three dimensions? That means looking up." As Sherlock did, he saw a map on the ceiling – of America. And then the rapid fire of neurons lit up and he realised that Liberty was a place, a location, in Indiana, commonly abbreviated in addresses as IN. That's where the Hound was- where H.O.U.N.D, whatever that meant, would be located.

He came out of his Mind Palace and went looking for John. Sherlock now knew what he was looking for- and needed a computer to continue the search. For the first time in days, he felt like he was getting somewhere.


	23. Chapter 23

**Fallen Angel Chapter Twenty Three**

* * *

**Hellish Hound Part Eleven**

* * *

The train journey home was even more silent than the one which had brought them to Dartmoor. Sherlock flopped into his seat, put in his earbuds and closed his eyes. John would not notice that the phone was not actually being used to play music. He just needed to shut everything out and to concentrate on what had happened.

Two, possibly three exposures to the drug over a twenty four hour period had rattled his sense of what was logical and what wasn't. How much of what he had done was based on his usual application of cold scientific logic, and how much driven by emotional overload and paranoia brought on by the drug? He couldn't be certain.

The first time with Henry he had already dissected- the effect on his anxiety levels, leading him to think he was in meltdown, then to the hallucinations in the back of the Landrover. The next morning he could feel the physical effects of coming down off the drug, and thought it was past him.

But had he also been exposed to the drug again in the Lab? John's entry into the small room off to the side- he had been in that room himself, when scouting the location to see if it would work for his experiment on John. If that is where the drug was being manufactured by Frankland, then he'd been exposed, too. The military police would be investigating the room- no doubt, Mycroft would keep an eye on what emerged. Of course, whether he would be bothered to tell Sherlock was a different matter. Whatever had set John off in the Lab, Sherlock deduced it was likely that he had also been exposed.

And then he got another significant dose in Dewer's Hollow, along with the other three. They'd all shared the same suggestive hallucination- expecting a gigantic hound, their senses were fooled into mistaking a normal large dog for a genetically modified monster. It had taken five shots to take it down, which then exposed the truth to all of them.

This time as the train rattled away from Plymouth, there was a third party with John and Sherlock. Across the train carriage aisle, Lestrade was tucking into a Danish pastry, along with his take-away coffee. He'd bought coffee for them as well. Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock could imagine the doctor sipping his as he read the latest Western Morning News. Sherlock let his grow cold beside him, not wanting to show any signs of life that might stimulate a desire to talk from any of his travelling companions.

Talking was the last thing on his mind. Despite the shared experience, the drug had affected each of them differently. For Henry Knight, traumatised by exposure as a child when his father was killed, the repetition was too much to bear, and had pushed him into suicidal thoughts. He'd taken the gun to Dewer's Hollow to kill himself, but Sherlock had been able to talk him out of it, and John had disarmed him. Yet, all the while they were ingesting the misty vapours of the drug. Knight had the most exposure- three at the Hollow, including the night before he'd arrived at Baker Street.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked across the table at the doctor. "Do you think Henry Knight will recover from this?"

Perhaps it was the novelty of Sherlock asking a question about the man, rather than just thinking _client_ as some object. John looked surprised as he lowered the paper and connected with the grey green eyes now scrutinising his. "Doctor Mortimer thinks so. She's moved him to a private clinic for observation. I called her this morning- she thinks he will make a full recovery, but it will take time. Why do you ask?" He sounded a little wary of Sherlock's motives.

The consulting detective broke eye contact, and looked out the window at the passing scenery. "The reports about the H.O.U.N.D. project said that exposure needed to be repeated a lot to get to the homicidal or suicidal ideation stage. But, while the drug is excreted quickly enough, the longer term psychological consequences are less predictable."

Out of his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John look away. He knew exactly what the statement was hinting at, and he looked uncomfortable about the consulting detective's deductions. "I'm fine, if that's where this is going." John lifted the paper so he could escape forensic scrutiny. From behind the front page headlines, came a slightly barbed comment. "Anyway, you were exposed more than me." John turned the page and resumed reading.

Lestrade put his coffee cup down. "Now, children…don't argue. This sounds a bit like pots and kettles. Neither of you is exactly firing on all cylinders, are you?"

Sherlock huffed and put his ear buds back in, and closed his eyes. He wasn't satisfied by John's answer any more than Lestrade had been. The doctor's reaction to Franklin's death in the mine field had shocked both of them. The explosion came immediately on the heels of John's second exposure to the drug – twice in the space of two hours had taken a toll. While the doctor had been functional at the Hollow, when they chased Franklin to his death in the minefield, the explosion triggered old memories. He'd gone into a PTSD flashback, and had to be physically restrained by both Sherlock and Lestrade- to stop him from going over the barbed wire into the minefield. He kept shouting at them, "I have to go; he's been injured, he'll die if I don't help him." No amount of explaining that Frankland would have been killed instantly would calm him down. In the end, Lestrade had to use a pair of handcuffs on John, and then forcibly pull him back to the Landrover. Sherlock had the task of herding Henry back to the car; the client was still in a volatile state- but watching the man who murdered his father die had a cathartic effect, and he was calm enough.

Sherlock drove them back to the Cross Keys Inn, with Lestrade following in the car borrowed from Gary. When Doctor Mortimer showed up, Henry was taken into Plymouth. John refused to go with them, saying he was alright now. When the two men went up to bed, Sherlock sat up in the chair and kept watch. John's nightmares started about ninety minutes after he'd fallen asleep. And the doctor's shouts brought a concerned Lestrade across the hall to knock on their door.

"Sherlock, are you alright in there?"

He opened the door and went out into the hall. Very quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeper, Sherlock whispered, "John's having nightmares; it's all part of the PTSD. According to the info I can find, trying to wake him up might cause more damage than just letting him get through it." Sherlock's laptop was open- it and the small bedside lamp were the only two areas of illumination in the room.

The doctor was tossing and turning, muttering in his sleep. Sherlock started to turn back to the room.

Lestrade took hold of his arm, ignoring the flinch and pulled him back into the hallway, so they could talk without waking John.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Sherlock was slightly offended by the question.

"Don't pull that with me. I heard you when you grabbed Doctor Frankland. Who did you think he was? You were terrified. I've never seen you lose control like that before. Not even when you've been high. The drug made you hallucinate- who was it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You were exposed, too, Lestrade; you can hardly count what you think you might have seen as being real."

"Yeah- but I got there after you three- and I hadn't been exposed before. So, I'm least affected. I know what I saw. You wouldn't be _afraid_ of some military researcher- you thought he was someone else. What I want to know is who the hell provokes that kind of reaction out of you?"

Just then John started shouting, "No, let me get to him; he'll die. Let me go!"

Sherlock used it as an excuse to go back into the bedroom, leaving Greg's question unanswered as he shut the door. _What he doesn't know about Moriarty won't hurt him. _ Sherlock's plans didn't involve a DI getting involved. He could hardly trust a Met police officer to be able to resist his brother's prying. _Credere et nulli*_ had become his new motto.

As the train skirted the seafront at Dawlish, he mulled over the consequences of his being under the influence of the drug. The effects had pushed him into drugging John, which he did not think he would have done under normal circumstances. The paranoia that led him to think that his brother, the doctor and the DI were in some elaborate conspiracy clearly tipped him over into something that was a bit not good- even by his standards. Yet, perversely, it actually had a useful consequence, putting more distance between them. Under the influence of the drug, John had been slow to realise that it was Sherlock who had exposed him the first time, not catching on until the next morning. But, by then, his own embarrassment about the PTSD flashbacks both at the minefield and then at night kept his criticism in check. After all, Sherlock had not been responsible for the second, much larger dose. And, in fact, as Sherlock pointed out, he'd been wrong- the sugar wasn't actually carrying the drug, so technically John was responsible for drugging himself when he went into the experimental room, despite its warning signs.

Oddly, it was the DI's reaction that worried him more. Sherlock had cut off Lestrade's questioning about his behaviour in the Hollow, but he thought it might get back to Mycroft anyway. He was not sure about whether the man's concern could be minimised, but he was reluctant to open the discussion, lest it get out of hand. Lestrade had seen him before under the influence of drugs, and might be willing to pass that information onto his brother- under the guise of "concern". Sherlock sighed. _I don't need this now. I have to concentrate._

When they came into Exeter station, a large crowd of people got on- holidaymakers on their way home after a trip to Devon. Noise levels went up dramatically. Once the seats were occupied and the train left the station, Sherlock got up. John didn't look up from his newspaper. Lestrade tried to catch his eye, with an enquiring look, but Sherlock studiously ignored it, and moved off down the carriage. He needed something to help focus his thinking, and he hoped to find it.

Five carriages along, he did. A casually dressed young man of about twenty was standing in the corridor between train carriages. The door window was half way down and Sherlock smirked. "I don't suppose you have a spare that you'd be willing to give me?"

The young man frowned. "A spare what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "One of what you are studiously hiding in your left hand behind your leg. The guard's down in the last carriage checking tickets- he'll take at least ten minutes to work his way up here, so I just have time for a cigarette."

The guy grimaced. "Busted- just don't tell the girlfriend, will you? She's trying to make me quit." He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a half empty packet of cigarettes, handing Sherlock one. The taller man took it and then eyed him, expectantly. The youth sighed and reached into his other pocket and pulled out a disposable lighter and handed it over.

Sherlock lit the cigarette and took a deep drag all the way down into his lungs, closing his eyes in appreciation. He then leaned over past the youth, and pulled the window all the way down. "Unless your girlfriend's nose is too full of the perfume that I can smell on you, she'll pick up the scent of smoke. You need a gale through here to keep it from lingering on your clothes."

The young man laughed. "Sounds like someone's been pushing you to quit, too."

A nod was the only reaction he got. Then Sherlock simply shut his eyes and concentrated on smoking. _I need to think._

* * *

_*Trust No One_


End file.
